I walk ahead of myself in perpetual expectancy of miracles. — Anaïs Nin, House of Incest. (Swallow Press; 1 edition, January 1, 1958) Originally published 1915.
After you’ve gone There’ll be a difference in the moonlight, Something missing, something added The color of the track a neutrino cuts Through heavy water in a mineshaft. There’ll be a sentimental re-sorting Of all detritus: locks of hair, humus, grit, Photographs of strangers dancing, Refugees at a distant border Leaning on each other, locked… Continue reading T. R. Hummer
As he held her and tasted her, and as she curved in further and further toward him, with her own lips, new to herself, drowned and engulfed in love, yet solaced and triumphant, he was thankful to have an existence at all, if only as a reflection in her wet eyes. — F. Scott Fitzgerald,… Continue reading F. Scott Fitzgerald
Do you imagine at night someone going to bed the very moment you are going to bed? Turning out the light? And isn’t it so quiet you swear the heart is telepathic. Isn’t it– — Beckian Fritz Goldberg, from “Eros in His Striped Shirt,” In the Badlands of Desire (Cleveland State University Poetry Center, 1993)