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   e u r y d i c e    i n    t h e    u n d e r w o r l d

--- L E T I T I A   T R E N T


There's less poetry here
than the pales say.
We are oceans suspended
in a clean, deep petal.
You think I want to find
my hands or the man
licked clean by fever.

I want neither. That connection was long; it made me tired of bridges forever. Here I can walk right up to people and press the length of their others. I know you by hiss and breath of color. Are we connected?

I cannot remember impenetrable. Nothing here is solid. We are laid whole. That? That slit opens by fire. A shoulder trying to dim though. Bodies take the long way, think there are troubles for the reason. I am not separate.

Heat lights quick, needs dark and time. But I have noise. I hear Orpheus. Oh music (it helped me shimmer into shedding) comes to wrench me, like he pressed. Heat! That heavy God, the constant feet of day, wound around his marble arm.

© crossconnect, inc 1995-2006 |
published in association with the |
university of pennsylvania's kelly writers house |