American Culture · American Literature · Classic · Collection · Contemporary · Excerpt · Passage · Poetry

Edward Hirsch

       Our hearts are leaving our bodies. Our hearts are thirsty black handkerchiefs flying through the trees at night, soaking up the darkest beams of moonlight, the music of owls, the motion of wind-torn branches. And now our hearts are thick black fists flying back to the glove of our chests. — Edward Hirsch, from… Continue reading Edward Hirsch

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