In Which I Fold, Bird-like, Into Myself by Sophie Klahr

Made to buckle, soar, evolved: this body’s
compass points like needles in the brain.

I speak of
            desire,     tired of being
                           ashamed            crossing

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

for        slack?

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.

(via softcollapse)

(Source: strange-machine.com)

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