So this is love. So this is entropy. I’ll break every bone in my feet running toward the shiny gate of it. The whole damn sky holds its breath. — Stevie Edwards, from “Offering,” Humanly. (Small Doggies Press, March 17, 2015)
You have my permission not to love me; I am a cathedral of deadbolts and I’d rather burn myself down than change the locks. — Rachel McKibbens, from “Letter From My Brain to My Heart,” Pink Elephants. (Cypher Books, December 1, 2009)
There is a broken-down burning house inside the soul and someone in the window waves. It is me. Dammit — Steve Scafidi, from “The Denunciation of Ricky Skaggs from On High,” The Cabinetmaker’s Window (Louisiana State University Press, 2014)
Press close, bare-bosomed Night! Press close, magnetic, nourishing Night! Night of south winds! Night of the large, few stars! Still, nodding Night! Mad, naked, Summer Night! ― Walt Whitman, from “Song of Myself,” Leaves of Grass. Originally published: July 4, 1855.
I will never forget that absence that entered me like a man enters his own house, and I was satisfied with nonbeing: an emptiness open to everything. —Pablo Neruda, from “It Happens,” The Sea and the Bells ( Copper Canyon Press, 2002)
Even a passing moment has its fertile past, its Friday before Saturday, its May before June. — Wisława Szymborska, from “No Title Required,” Poems New and Collected 1957-1997, trans. Stanisław Barańczak and Clare Cavanagh, (Harcourt Brace & Co., 1998)
How beautiful you must be to have been able to lead me this far with only the sound of your going away. — W. S. Merwin, “The Moon Before Morning,” The Moon Before Morning. (Copper Canyon Press, December 1, 2015)