“From blossoms comes this brown paper bag of peaches we bought from the boy at the bend in the road where we turned toward signs painted Peaches. From laden boughs, from hands, from sweet fellowship in the bins, comes nectar… — Li-Young Lee Copy Share Image
Memory revises me. Even now a letter comes from a place I don’t know, from someone with my name and postmarked years ago, while… — Li-Young Lee Copy Share Image
Our bodies look solid, but they arent. Were like a fountain. A fountain of water looks solid, but you can put your fingers right… — Li-Young Lee Copy Share Image
I've been thinking about something for a long time, and I keep noticing that most human speech-if not all human speech-is made with the… — Li-Young Lee Copy Share Image
“From blossoms comes this brown paper bag of peaches we bought from the boy at the bend in the road where we turned toward… — Li-Young Lee Copy Share Image
“But, no one can tell without cease our human story, and so we lose, lose” — Li-Young Lee Copy Share Image
“The moon from any window is one part whoever’s looking. The part I can’t see is everything my sister keeps to herself. One part… — Li-Young Lee Copy Share Image
Poetry is the language of extremity. Poetry is a transfer of potency. You feel something potent and then you transfer it onto the page. — Li-Young Lee Copy Share Image
