People who read poetry have heard about the burning bush, but when you write poetry, you sit inside the burning bush.
Li-Young LeeA bruise, blue in the muscle, you impinge upon me. As bone hugs the ache home, so I'm vexed to love you, your body the shape of returns, your hair a torso of light, your heat I must have, your opening I'd eat, each moment of that soft-finned fruit, inverted fountain in which I don't see me.
Li-Young Lee