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“Love is not gentle,
like the dust of a room;
love is a thing that happens
in a room, and becomes dust.”
― Frank O'Hara

“Oh to be an angel (if there were any!), and go
straight up into the sky and look around and then
come down
not to be covered with steel and aluminum
glaringly ugly in the pure distances and clattering and
buckling, wheezing
but to be part of the treetops and the blueness, invisible,
the iridescent darknesses beyond,
silent, listening to
the air becoming no air becoming air again”
― Frank O'Hara, Lunch Poems

“But here is where the gods are, speculating, bemused.”
― Frank O'Hara, Meditations in an Emergency

“Grief suffocated. Grief paralysed. Grief was a cruel, heavy boot pressed so hard against his chest that he could not breathe.”
― R.F. Kuang, Babel