Fiona Templeton


FIONA: (To self, to jury, to TV, to audience. Crashes the court tables
together into the hospital bed, forces the video to drink:)

Love skulks home the worst for waste, its telling between its legs. Let's
not breathe revenge of the being.

See hand-held smile, fits the slot, or would, the soul of witness. Wrist-
held at close halves, don't be in it, do it. Later for in it, on earth, in me.

But as we suspect our own secrets, we must listen to their secrets'
secrets, out of the mouth and into the future.

Moving like strangers through the house of language, our bodies speak
to understand. Your attention's our material, though we spoke before
attention's answering bruise. But you read that blue story. Once upon
a voice, we bed in blue chambers. Hearsay was placed in the mouth and
denied standing room.

Dreams are obeyed, names denied the weather for fear of treading
a mortal boundary.

But to have and to head-hold, too, buffets air home with another cheek.
Searches the mouth for the word the heart held. And we attend to this
of each other.

The lure of her other is imagining that the other can imagine what she can
not. A let-me-bring-you-to-your-senses, without introductions, spoken in
intakes, unsutured, of breath. You know, eking the tongue, ow, till blue
in the face. Not law's habit or must's maze, how can the sky-blushed
throat of air be for saying no?

If you're an actor, where's the infinite? the camera?

Wings of an impossible mirror, partialities suspend each other. He is not
to be discovered behind this blank that holds motionless.

Show, shout, the last closet of all. Be not captured, be in mouths, be
impossible to resist.

Write the actor off?

He will slip out by the door of immobility. Taking place takes the time
you're in.

Our death is our own as dreams are.

((((((((( The Alterran Poetry Assemblage )))))))))