The Road to Desire is However Many Doves
by Ellie Laabs
When we drove off that day, the sky
was waning and the chickens of the heart
had just come home to roost. For weeks,
I ran my hands under water until my skin
became the space where gravel used to be.
All night, the darkness wove in spruce and howl.
My gut splintered like a walking stick. After
the gold rush, any narrative of servitude is easier
than the truth. These days, I try to love less
like a maid. My solace lets its fingers out far—
the sigh of stallions in their pen, the scent
of pent-up longing. When you hold my hair
in your hands, I picture the real world.
Something golden and burning. 
What stood out for me here were the line breaks. The double entendre, the power of reading backwards and forwards to find new meaning. Each glance for meaning, now a rotor cloud, circling itself: an empowered self-engineered dynamo within a sky expanding beyond all the desires.
If I wanted to explain poetry to someone, this could be figure A. Perfection.