He thought about it.
Lust he said.
You mean like Vincent Van Gogh. Lust for life.
No he said. Like a bee.
Pollen she said.
He laughed.
- anne carson, “xxiii. how rich a poor pleasure to a poor man”
last night i made my way home intoxicated and read this poem over and over and there’s another part of it i want to quote, but i won’t because it’ll be taken the wrong way i know
