Our bodies move over one another, like dashes, like signs.
We are horizontal and straight, our hands subtracting pain
like years. You want to know what minus means, where
it all will go when it’s gone. I tell you to trace my legs,
they are tracks to freedom. Arbeit Macht Frei. The words are still
there. You’re 12 million people, I say, and zero. You can’t
figure this sum. Tell me, lacrimae of the body, for whom do you weep?
Where do hands go when they are tired? We are exhausted.
Here, in this movement we’ve become one body.
And you are free.
And this is not work.