There Is No Word A Poem by Tony Hoagland www.poetryfoundation.org what I already am thinking about is my gratitude for language— how it will stretch just so much and no farther; how there are some holes it will not cover up; how it will move, if not inside, then around the circumference of almost anything— how, over the years, it has given me back all the hours and days, all the plodding love and faith, all the misunderstandings and secrets I have willingly poured into it. languagewords
White cloth I used to be very interested in the fact that anything, no matter how rough, rusted, diffy, or otherwise discredited it was, looked good if you set it down on a stretch of white cloth. Because anytime you set some detail of the world off that way, it was able to take on its true stature as an object of attention. Nicholson Baker, The Mezzanine Dwelling in ritualDrawing a frame beautyflaws