memoryslandscape:

“All afternoon we sit and become lovers, [your] hand in mine like a bird’s delicate wing. Everywhere the sparrows go down to the river for the sweet tears of communion. Soon, in the yellow last light, we will begin again to speak of that light in the house that is not ours, that is only what we come to out of the fields in the slow-plunging knowledge of words trying to find a way home.”

— Dave Smith, from “August, on the Rented Farm,” Floating in Solitude: Three Volumes of Poetry (University of Illinois Press, 1996)