Made to buckle, soar, evolved: this body’s
compass points like needles in the brain.
I speak of
desire, tired of being
marshland, low tide. An ibis scissors towards horizon.
Salt in our hair, sun in our skin.
All week I have been apologizing
for the past & dreams I won’t speak of.
Salt in our lips, sand in our teeth.
The knots tighten between us; when did you last ask
Not since we ceased to speak
in metaphors, realizing my history
of symbols was not
your history of symbols
when, unable to make a fire,
I sputtered something violent
concerning Pynchon then curled
alone against the worst of what poetry can do.
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