Too much talk of things
leads us where words
fly round in circles
like tethered birds.
Caged by convention,
perched on the bed,
despite conversation
nothing is said.
Outside, it is dawn
a stale sun spreading
warnings on the world
and where we’re heading
is no longer destination
but some vague action.
Here in this soft place
there is strange attraction.
There is the beat
of hearts grown heightened,
something’s unwinding
that cannot be tightened
and my soul will break out
into wings, I suppose,
yours too; and about
us a nest of clothes.

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