the flesh covers the bone and they put a mind in there and sometimes a soul, and the women break vases against the walls and the men drink too much and nobody finds the one but keep looking crawling in and out of beds. flesh covers the bone and the flesh searches for more than flesh.
there’s no chance at all: we are all trapped by a singular fate.
nobody ever finds the one.
the city dumps fill the junkyards fill the madhouses fill the hospitals fill the graveyards fill
nothing else fills.
Oh, and one more thing. I send my love/ However long and far it takes—through light,/ Through time, through all the faithlessness of men
“I think there is a general misconception that you write poems because you ‘have something to say.’ I think, actually, that you write poems because you have something echoing around in the bone-dome of your skull that you cannot say. Poetry allows us to hold many related tangential notions in very close orbit around each other at the same time. The ‘unsayable’ thing at the center of the poem becomes visible to the poet and reader in the same way that dark matter becomes visible to the astrophysicist. You can’t see it, but by measure of its effect on the visible, it can become so precise a silhouette you can almost know it.”—Rebecca Lindenberg (via letters-to-nobody)
We met in a coastal village spent a lovely night without leaving an address going separate ways. Three years later we meet again by coincidence. The whole three years spun a novel we abandoned: They fail to recognize themselves as though meeting in another story for an encounter. One asks: Who are you, so cold and weary The other says: I only know a thread is loose on my sweater The more you pull it, the more it lengthens until I completely vanish.
Hsia Yü Translated from the Chinese by Karen An-Hwei Lee
“Tendons, ligaments, joints,
metacarpals, wrist, palmar
side, dorsal side. There are
27 bones within the wrist and
hand, 27 bones to grab, to
hold, to touch, to use. I swear
that I can feel every groove,
crest and whorl in the skin of
yours. I could map out your
fingerprints if I had to.”—Kristina Haynes, “is Hands, Part II” (via letters-to-nobody)