Billy Collins

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I can hear the library humming in the night, a choir of authors murmuring inside their books along the unlit, alphabetical shelves, Giovanni Pontano next to Pope, Dumas next to his son, each one stitched into his own private coat, together forming a low, gigantic chord of language

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The birds are in their trees,the toast is in the toaster,and the poets are at their windows.[...]The proofreaders are playing the ping-ponggame of proofreading,glancing back and forth from page to page,the chefs are dicing celery and potatoes,and the poets are at their windowsbecause it is their job for whichthey are paid nothing every Friday afternoon

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There are easier ways of making sense,the connoisseurship of gesture, for example.You hold a girl's face in your hands like a vase.You lift a gun from the glove compartmentand toss it out the window into the desert heat