Sara Wintz – (wintz)

Sara Wintz

We are watching the transitioning in landscape of swamp, to marsh covered hill. Skeletal towers that stand with legs spread, implanted before the figureless buildings that undulate on the opposite side of the room. We are watching the transitioning from a train car that rolls forward [Puffs of smoke floating up to the sky.] with its head turned to a side waiting      Snow flakes from its tresses down and across dirtly face of city, Mixes with soot at feet and stacks of smoke filing up to the sky.                                                                                          sea gulls                                                                                          diving                                                                                          into water.                                                                                          diving                                                                                          sea gulls                                                                                          into water dissolving into a running strand of concrete. Here is where we are and this is what we have Debris and assumed evidence: ground-crouched branches of trees and animals segmented at roadside, astroturf, skylights, smog, and soot. A child stares into This wave that is breaking (He kicks the snow with his feet and throws it into the air. The pieces suspend and his eyes stop blinking. Where it is from all sides, the falling, and the melting and the diving and the driving and the foaming Slowing begins, submerged inside the whiteness that spirals thicker each falling gesture. A slowing of gears of clicking keys a slowing of tires a slowing of toes and heels, a slowing of opening and closing doors a slowing and stopped behind windows the eyebrows and eyes and noses and posed lips. The white that piles uneven. stop and stare. stopped and staring. stopping and stare. no running is there no foaming is no crossing there no constructing and there is no planning. Inside of a house stammering wood throws heat that fogs window glass. It stops steadier glances from walking out. To take up a collection:                                                                                                  the whiteness rests                                                                                                  atop itself. Bodies curled into the fetal position. The thick drops sit and lie on lids heavier, Heavier we turn down our eyes we drop the lids under the weight of drops of heads lifted into dropping. Last a quiet. Deafness once all has stacked: the white, the lids on eyes. Standing                                                                                    then, the dark night                                                                                    added under the layers                                                                                    of constellations, spheres, galaxies Sun grows to steady, as with the yellow leading of highway mid-rays, elongated dashes. Eyes, Our bodies’ hemispheres, exposing under lifted blankets. Sparse: Some noses press against the outside                                                The green grasses Noses push attachments across lawns to decipher                             that peek from snow

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