And the absurd hope awakens that everything / scattered chaotically in the world will settle down / again, in natural order. — from “Fortune-Telling from the Seabed”

But the one who reads your poems / doesn’t care how much you paid for them — from “Before”

But there were years no one counted / royal years / when we played under ancient oaks / and eternity was with us — from “Nontime”

consider the rivers and mountains / They remember more than people / their memory is more faithful and deeply hidden — from “My Greetings to a Distant River”

It is better to be careful, however, judging the happiness of others. — from “Not to Be Certain”

Perhaps nothing in the world / is used with such wastefulness / or such stinginess / as time — from “Not Eternity and Not a Void”

The old man does not threaten anyone with his / own death, doesn’t share his despair with anyone, / and doesn’t complain that for him everything was at / first too early, then too late. — from “The Old Man”

To understand nothing. Each time in a different / way, from the first cry to the last breath. / Yet happy moments come to me from the past, like / bridesmaids carrying oil lamps. — from “Return to My Childhood Home”

What in this asphalt suburb / could bring forth such joy / such exaltation of prayer when it is still dark / and not a single streak of light in the sky — from “Before Dawn”

who will reject us with relief / freeing us from the ties of art / which constantly demands something / asks questions / scorns an easy victory — from “Questions”

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Source: In Praise of the Unfinished, by Julia Hartwig