Читать книгу New Theatre - Susan Steudel - Страница 14

The spirits must write.

Paper, a break in cloud.

At the start there was a fire.

Ink caked, disintegrated.

Feathered ash.

It is first heard through a cup pressed to a wall.

Your cup.

Maybe I am imagining a different country

or non-action.

A lie pulls a scarf from my mouth.

It has never been proven that such a world exists.