Sometimes we mimic migrating birds
sort of fleeing from the all too
ordinary, looking for ourselves in another place
to find out: are we still 
the ones we think we know
and how many new surroundings will we
soon braid into our sight, for example
of a wood close to home, a too-familiar 
path or instead just the unknown
direction that we here now wine in hand
unfold from the map for tomorrow? But 
no matter how far we travel, we wander and sleep
always in the same body that keeps intruding
immodestly, letting us know what it has gathered 
of gusto delight hunger and being tired of
and letting us out on bail only in dreams.
We love it and we rage at it. 
 --Hester Knibbe (tans. Jacquelyn Pope)

[via poetry international]

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