"If your eyes are not deceived by the mirage
Do not be proud of the sharpness of your understanding;
It may be your freedom from this optical illusion
Is due to the imperfectness of your thirst."
-- Sohrawardi, as quoted in the epigraph to Galway Kinnell's book of poems, Imperfect Thirst
Lewis Buzbee, The Yellow-Lighted Bookshop (via prettybooks)
And this is why I sometimes get very, very anxious when I’m in a library or bookstore. So many books, so little time.
IN THE ATTIC
There’s a half hour toward dusk when flies,
Trapped by the summer screens, expire
Musically in the dust of sills;
And ceilings slope toward remembrance.
The same crimson afternoons expire
Over the same few rooftops repeatedly;
Only, being stored up for remembrance,
They somehow escape the ordinary.
Childhood is like that, repeatedly
Lost in the very longueurs it redeems.
One forgets how small and ordinary
The world looked once by dusklight from above…
But not the moment which redeems
The drowsy arias of flies—
And the chin settles onto palms above
Numbed elbows propped up on rotting sills.
from Collected Poems