Alone, an audience can only speak for themselves and the idea of observing the space between them and what isn’t
apparent, though it makes them anxious to not imagine the spherics of clouds, wind, indicators of the probability of rain
and retreat, how the body turns inside itself when it is wet, pressing everything back as one presses against the wind
when walking through snow, a memory of footsteps striding behind them. A History, says the audience, which so soon covered
will never repeat. There is little, of course, to leave behind when you’re not here. Incisor. Mandible. Quarter moon of bone.
A separation, says the audience, which is to say, a sort of ghost. A sleight. Afterthought of anise leaving its cloud across the tongue.