the performer is moving across a line that doesn’t

exist they are moving along a line vanishing   they

are the line vanishing always

 vanished and also the color of the wall is there a true

space for dancing if there is no air around you to

move through i think that once we all die it will just

be white space and i will die again and go to a 

higher white space dead from a fatal ricochet concussion 

giving in against white walls like dolphins swimming

straight into glass driven mad from tanks filled with their 

echo only then will the crack of bones make     sound

the performer is  silent not everyone gets to make a

 sound you know but the color of   the performer is

 blaring noise to god the performer is a spectrum 

that catches no light the performer bends lifts graceful

arm and leg becomes a straight line balance an 

empty plane of justice imagined as if 

to ? reach for something the performer 

reaches nothing and still is suspended in the air

the performer has strings at their endpoints

so from all the places they are supposed to stop

the performer continues along a hitched line up to the 

roof of the atmosphere where a white god with 

white gloves makes his fingers dance the 

performer  cannot move itself the performer is not a 

they the performer is an it skirting across 

canvas a displaced splatter flailing to get       free

to get free there must  be a world outside of 

this one where a “free” can get got

i think it dances for that reason maybe i “think” it           is 

aware of all this i think it reads this poem every time it 

puts pen to paper fists a black hand upon the velvet curtain

this cannot be the only way is it i need help to find it i need

a line i need i need   all i do is dance and need 

Semilore Ola | semilore.ola@yale.edu