Poncho the peripatetic, shaped from wooded wanders through the flatlands of the Dutch-German border.
A solitary spectacle of sweat weather systems.
Internal and external circulations of fluids snacked, spat and squatted.
One wet whistle singing silence, space and strangers.
A performance with no words, only tongue.
Enter the flow.
Should I have stayed home, and thought of here?
Beth Dillon
15/4-1/5/16