Couched

Couch these words in thoughts on a couch

Poetry seeks the middle place

Where what we think and what we feel 

Mistake one for the other

I call it the middle place but it was the first

The wishbone split came somewhere after

When four legs became sometimes two

And then only two

Poetry is not for unfinished thoughts

But thoughts that can't be finished

Perhaps. I'm not sure. I like the sounds of it

The shape of your mouth when you say the words

The shape of your mind when you think the thoughts

Beckon, beckon, skittish connection

Our hands entwining 

Skin scraped by electric thickets 

A robot could have wrote this

I tell ourselves

But I thought of it first this time

And I sleep envious of the water coursing down your body

That would only rust me, maybe

We chain our dreams to logic

As if that safely keeps them

To exist in the same room as you

Is as small and as big as I can dream tonight

Rivers push against their banks

And make new curves and bends and breaks

Pebbles tumble sand and silt

As they carve out that middle place