I make it this way: I put a glacier on the stage.

It melts.

There are compensations. For example, an audience drowns.

Doing nothing is its own war.

I choreograph saints by initiating total paralysis. It’s not the fire, it’s the being tied to.

Beatification means to make beat.

A boy without a brain kisses a girl without a heart. She returns the kiss. It’s what empty drums do—the ocean turning black since dawn.

A girl without a heart kisses a girl without a heart. It is on the internet. The room heats up. The world is heating up. The suicides happen somewhere else. The suicides happen here but don’t matter. The desert is never safe. The stage, lit by alcohol, burns. Home is an excavation. Buried in layers of dust and greasepaint, she is all skin. She scrolls through herself.  Remember scrolls.

All her windows, transparent, reflect her in ghost.

Murdered is the most common means by which to become holy.

She has watched the film and knows what happens after Loie Fuller waves her tinted sleeves. After Isadora nakedly graces the graces. After Bojangles climbs, unclimbs the pointless stairs.

A window is a painting someone has forgotten to put the painting in. Nothing happens between the cells, neither osmosis nor love note.

Windows are forgotten portals. To peer is not to pass.

Because defenestration is a ladies’ game—

anyone can play.