Hear the bee. Hear the clavichord. Hear the split lemon of the heart. How? Hunger for sour juice, soft seeds chewed to bitterness, the heart a relic of what once got said, of what once said something about what skin did to skin. Reportedly. She tugs her left earlobe, the one so far free of piercings. The asters are purple. As far as anyone knows (including her) she has never been “tore down a la Rimbaud,” as the song on heavy rotation insists throws open the door to bliss. Jo