--- 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.