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
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Whatever you're thinking, I would like to hear it.