About
Search for content
After two years’ absence she finally returned to chilly Europe, a trifle weary, a trifle sad, disgusted by our banal entertainments, our shrunken landscapes, our impoverished lovemaking. Her soul had remained over there, among the gigantic, poisonous flowers. She missed the mystery of old…
(via chronographically)
"
My chest is a birdcage
where two canaries are perched,
chirping and preening their feathers.
Today, a little boy came to my door.
I thought he was selling chocolate bars for class
but he didn’t say a word, just pressed his tiny hand
through my sternum, precise as a surgeon —
he pulled out one of the canaries
walked away, humming a lullaby
kissing her soft yellow head.
~ “A Boy Named Never,” Jeanann Verlee (via clavicola)
(via clavicola)
"I wake up in your bed. I know I have been dreaming.
Much earlier, the alarm broke us from each other,
you’ve been at your desk for hours. I know what I dreamed:
our friend the poet comes into my room
where I’ve been writing for days,
drafts, carbons, poems are scattered everywhere,
and I want to show her one poem
which is the poem of my life. But I hesitate,
and wake. You’ve kissed my hair
to wake me. I dreamed you were a poem,
I say, a poem I wanted to show someone …
and I laugh and fall dreaming again
of the desire to show you to everyone I love,
to move openly together
in the pull of gravity, which is not simple,
which carries the feathered grass a long way down the upbreathing air."
~ II, from “The Dream of a Common Language,” Adrienne Rich (via clavicola)
(via leukocytes)
