You were sure about the street. It had overwhelmed written all over, or the sharp edge of civilization. Pretty new. State-wide enforcement of fair weather or yellow weather jackets led us all to the hidden love scene in some cave, and on our way, you remind me of manstrength. You need that to uproot. The man with your last job is especially proud of his dreams. They always mean new ways to walk. On forgetting where the conversation. What rotation of the water disrupted it. I notice you, a walking flower, like you are blind in your sex. Like you planned our axes. Sure sounds aslosh said the dream. You overhear talk of rare white crustaceans deep in the rocks of the jetty, so you paint them. In the distance behind you buildings crack. Asleep, you are turned away through the arches. Sounds of doors collapse into your trajectory, no longer the expanded beam. Wood carvings of the ocean are muscular from where we sit. You want to affirm with your hands but they are covered in white paint and you are overwhelmed. Lines on the floor and ceiling are transparent, slip through them while you sleep. There was never a scene of never finding the light inching through.
Kelsa Trom is co-founder of the ‘Lectric Collective, which organizes events in service of ekphrasis, positioning plastic and language arts in conversation. She has poems in Vertebrae and the Berkeley Poetry Review.