Perhaps poetry will be the canary in the mine-shaft warning us of what's to come.
Never mind. The self is the least of it. Let our scars fall in love.
The first step in the journey is to lose your way.
There are two versions to every poem – the crying version and the straight version
Second-hand gloves will become lovely again, their memories are what give them the need for other hands. And the desolation of lovers is the same: that enormous emptiness carved out of such tiny beings as we are asks to be filled; the need for the new love is faithfulness to the old.
Prose is walking; poetry is flying