“Arriving at each new city, the traveler finds again a past of his that he did not know he had: the foreignness of what you no longer are or no longer possess lies in wait for you in foreign, unpossessed places.”
― Italo Calvino, Invisible Cities

Labels: Books

Labels: Quotes

Love at the lips was touch
As sweet as I could bear;
And once that seemed too much;
I lived on air

That crossed me from sweet things,
I had the swirl and ache
I craved strong sweets, but those
Now no joy but lacks salt
Of tears, the aftermark
When stiff and sore and scarred
The hurt is not enough:

The flow of- was it musk
From hidden grapevine springs
Down hill at dusk?

From sprays of honeysuckle
That when they're gathered shake
Dew on the knuckle.

Seemed strong when I was young;
The petal of the rose
It was that stung.

That is not dashed with pain
And weariness and fault;
I crave the stain

Of almost too much love,
The sweet of bitter bark
And burning clove.

I take away my hand
From leaning on it hard
In grass and sand,

I long for weight and strength
To feel the earth as rough
To all my length.

Labels: Poetry