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After the Kill, the Feathers that are Left.

“My only poem is one of broken words. It eats your heart and leaves a hole for bleeding. It steals a breath from every breath you take.

My only poem is open strands of meaning. It leaves a ringing in your ears you might believe is music. It rises out of muck to cry a call to chase.

My only poem is wanting over having. It is a grasp—as firm as steel—of air. It aches for aching and hates to ache for hate.

My only poem is all you’re ever losing. It opens like a yawning sinkhole’s sinking. It reaches for your slender wrists and plummets.

My only poem is what I’ll never haven’t. It takes away whatever hope you need. It slits the throat of thoughts of pretty flowers.” —geof huth, 2016

"We move in and out of states of chronic longing." (via @joycecaroloates.bsky.social)

"I bought the Knausgaard, because I'll read anything even remotely touching on The School of Night."
—@mjohnharrison.bsky.social

"They didn’t know they were advancing such a project – they would have to have read a book to know that – but that’s exactly what they were doing."