Nascent, sage, gulfs of air after Levertov The dancers emerge over the salt flats sway "there is a summer" say "the rain, it was no dream" what they know they have in hand, they love the human room, its basket of apples legs clamor between arrivederci histories waft in, grafted in the moment to a ray of skin "into the open well of centuries" fly bodies cupping wreck and wear grasping tufts, a thought fermata break upward to feel, green wings flee heavy slips free, slit and cross-press what isn't blessed, fresh-running "the dream is blood" surrounded or not torque release plot the dancer folds suspended there alone, half-known