and the sea wore a tarnished coat of silver. […] The moon kept shedding its silver clothes over the bogs and pockets of bracken. Those nights I would gaze at the bay road, at the cottages clustered under the moon’s immaculate stare, nothing hinted that I would suffer so late this turning away, this longing to be there.
— Mark Strand, from “Nights in Hackett’s Cove,” New and Selected Poems. (Alfred A. Knopf, 2009)
“The French called this time of day “l’heure bleue.” To the English it was “the gloaming.” The very word “gloaming” reverberates, echoes—the gloaming, the glimmer, the glitter, the glisten, the glamour—carrying in its consonants the images of houses shuttering, gardens darkening, grass-lined rivers slipping through the shadows. During the blue nights you think the end of day will never come. As the blue nights draw to a close (and they will, and they do) you experience an actual chill, an apprehension of illness, at the moment you first notice: the blue light is going, the days are already shortening, the summer is gone.”—Joan Didion, Blue Nights (via callmebliss)
“Tell me our story: are we impetuous,
are we kind to each other, do we surrender
to what the mind cannot think past?
Where is the evidence I will learn
to be good at loving?”—S. Cassarino, from “Summer Solstice” Zero at the Bone (New Issues Press, 2009)
“There are violet hills,
there is the covenant of duskbirds.
The moon comes over the mountain
like a big peach, and I want to tell you
what I couldn’t say the night we rushed
North, how I love the seriousness of your fingers
and the way you go into yourself,
calling my half-name like a secret.”—S. Cassarino, from “Summer Solstice,” Zero at the Bone (New Issues Press, 2009)