Poetry Spotlight: Come, Thief by Jane Hirshfield

I read Come, Thief by Jane Hirshfield recently. This was a random grab from the library shelf that I enjoyed. Here’s a few lines that I wrote down:

“What in this unpleated world isn’t someone’s seduction?”

“How fragile we are, between the few good moments.”

“In age, the world grows clumsy.”

“Life is dear to him yet,

though he believes it his own fault he grieves,

his own fault his old friends have turned against him

like crows against an injured of their kind.

There is no kindness here, no flint of mercy.

Descend, descend,

some voice must urge, inside the pear-stem.

The argument goes on, he cannot outrun it.

Dawnlight to dawnlight, I look: it is still there.

“Descent a thought impossible to imagine.”

“As silence is not silence, but a limit of hearing.”

“But the hopes of an old man spill, as waking

life does, through the hands.”

“Only those

with something

to lose

grow timid at darkfall.”

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