After a poem---by Racine, I think. No, Ronsard. (I looked it up.)
Translated by somebody.
THE OROTUND
And, vaguely, like the flowers, your beauties are so slim. The slenderness of stems thus leads to orotuning hymns.
CHORUS OF FLOWERS
Was there art? Was there art?
THE OROTUND
The flowers gently call.
CHORUS OF FLOWERS
Was there art?
THE OROTUND
Can art disturb a thing so small?
THE END.
(Two FRIENDS stand by a window.)
THE FRIEND
Westward, I’m pregnant---
WESTWARD
Leslie, I’m so happy---!
THE FRIEND
It’s not yours.
WESTWARD
There’s a wasp caught between the screen and the pane. Surely, it will die.
THE FRIEND
You know it can’t be yours.
WESTWARD
I see my mother coming up the path.
(Enter MRS. HO.)
MRS. HO
The paper hasn’t arrived yet. Westward, see to it.
(WESTWARD exits. MRS. HO sits.)
THE END.
(Two INDIVIDUALS drift by on a barge. They are lounging, of course. The
WOMAN has her back to the audience.)
MAN
It’s funny to call it “lazy eye,” because---really---it’s not lazy. “Wayward eye,” more like. Constantly moving, darting this way and that. “Active eye that moves to no end”---
WOMAN
Why would you---?
(The WOMAN turns around.)
MAN
I didn’t mean you---
(With effort, the WOMAN trains both eyes on him.)
WOMAN
If I could, I would shoot beams and burn you to ash.
(She does so. The barge continues to drift.)
THE END
(
Found on a pot by Mrs. Ho. Blue ink on masking tape. Unlike the other fragments, this
one has a title---and little else.)
(A cool though shocking [. . .)]
PETER: Vials [. . .]
