Lynne Dreyer

 

from Step Work

Go into the cool clocked room and count the mysteries and not the historical plots for death becomes a little naive active intrusion. Commas preserve the lightness as sun-visor calls german to her dogs. The white side of the leaves shimmers, first with skin, then secrets, and finally the secret writing. The work cracks itself open into planetary relief, whispering, calling back the dream.

“Red foxy lady! S.W.” They’re tired. They’ve never dared dream in pictures. Prepare that to the site where the people are leaving for the water shortage. They file past the grocery, past all of the stores and each sits on his own individualized pad.

Trilogy. They come in to peer, neutral, sporadic, as in an operatic jerky voice, screaming, testing out their vigilance. The apology becomes electric, flam-flakey. They come back from their country carrying their vowels and words moving chronologically forward to forget their past.

Death becomes the independent hand, crowded like the seeds. It becomes a caricature of itself, and the shallow walk becomes its harmony. Floridian gorillas are decorated with active superheroes. The sex warp is active, complete, translucent. Wet my eyes arid then the shadows can wall us in. They become timed and lasting: waiting for the family to be reunited, waiting for the family to be tried. Take some scene and think about winter, hand on cup, chicken hand image, and finally the dream image of the woman opening the door. Are the women opening the doors? The multiple image becomes its plot. The gestures have begun.