Mr. Jones stands outside the glass, looks in
at his foreign wife. Alien,
her only language numbers, her only song
variations on an oscilloscope. The audience
recognizes wild new rhythms:
she is pushing back frontiers, she
In this cool light,
eight floors above the parking lot,
A bag of bone and water,
flesh becomes irrelevant, she becomes
what she was not.
A silent grotesque, she sings her song.
The room sighs, is more alive than this centerpiece.
Her chest rises and falls in time with machines.
As the sun warms an aqua morning sky,
a hidden crescendo.
Mr. Jones tells Mrs. Jones good-bye.