— Roberto Bolaño, Literature + Illness = Illness
— Kenneth Rexroth, The Love Poems of Marichiko: VII
— Franz Kafka, Letters to Milena
My mind has been blown.
I’m all yours as long as that tea is iced.
Give me the lover who yanks open the door
of his house and presses me to the wall
in the dim hallway, and keeps me there until I’m drenched
and shaking, whose kisses arrive by the boatload
and begin their delicious diaspora
through the cities and small towns of my body.
To hell with the saints, with the martyrs
of my childhood meant to instruct me
in the power of endurance and faith,
to hell with the next world and its pallid angels
swooning and sighing like Victorian girls.
I want this world. I want to walk into
the ocean and feel it trying to drag me along
like I’m nothing but a broken bit of scratched glass,
and I want to resist it.
— Kim Addonizio, For Desire
no matter what you give them,
still want the moon.
white meat and dark,
The marriage bed
and the cradle,
still empty arms.
You give them land,
their own earth under their feet,
still they take to the roads.
And water: dig them the deepest well,
still it’s not deep enough
to drink the moon from.
— Denise Levertov, Adam’s Complaint
— Jeffrey McDaniel, from Letter To The Woman Who Stopped Writing Me Back