The moon’s a dead rock, but I still like the word,
so black in its white space.
what can we say to the
moon except You again?
— Franz Wright, from “Morning Moon,” in Kindertotenwald: Prose Poems (Alfred A. Knof, 2013)
I see that you
are the end of spring
across the hollow
of the empty bowl
not making a sound
and the dew is still here
— W. S. Merwin, “To a Departing Companion,” Present Company (Copper Canyon Press, 2007)
The faded leaves falling from the trees are words in search of a skilful
poet to put them back on the branches.
— Mahmoud Darwish, from “Boulevard St Germain,” A River Dies of Thirst. (Archipelago Books, 2009)