There, between the violets.
Varied ranks of blue and sun, the squire considering me from amidst a mouthful of nut. And the thin conversation of wind and trees who speak above me like a mother might, at the party, waiting for people to leave. Where would the lights go? We could put them on the side, as if we were in small theater in a dance studio complex (what is the real plural here?) in authentic Boston. The shins we would call them, each sitting on the ground, gazing dumbly inward to the center of the stage which is black and well cleaned, smooth and precise. The risers overflow their belt before the audience arrives. They are full of back packs and socks, stacks of chairs and only a small pocket of organization, up in the corner where the sound and light board is kept. The mirror is covered, here as everywhere, and there is no wind. The AC is off. I hold a piece of paper for a moment, letting it quiver in m hand.