The weekly poem on Slate this week is amazing.  Check it out:

by Paul Guest

How I wanted to graze with my hand
the armored hides of sturgeons
aslosh in their shallow tanks
I did not tell you, nor did I think
to say how the garfish, sentry-like
in their dull brown orbits,
with their pen-shaped snouts skimming food,
were named by someone
who knew that gar meant spear
in Old English. I forgot
my place in the story I idly told you,
as we rose in the elevator,
as your hands found in my neck a knot
your fingers could untie
with ease. Love, you know
that language failed me
early with you: in my mouth you found
a hidden stammer. In all
the days since, what have I said
that was right? So little.
But know: when we stood on one side
of thick glass to watch
a world of water ignore our entire lives,
I kissed your fingers
and each one in that light was blue.


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