So I'm reading this book, Resonance by Richard Jackson. As my professor said, "no one does the heart better than Rick Jackson," and I have to agree. Then I look at the back cover and he's a middle-aged balding man. Somehow this makes it better, that a middle aged balding man can write such poems about love.

"But for this moment, not like those other moments, it is
simply so surprising to be alive with you. Why is it enough
just to listen to the earth spin? Why is it that, at this moment,
despite the fact that our hearts beat at sixty fears a second
despite the fact that, at this moment the silence of our
dreams is immense, we can offer each other, and our world,
these unforgettable petals of frost unfolding on their stems."

I can't write about love. I mean, I write about love all the time, but it's always veiled. Maybe you have to be Rick Jackson to write about love. Or Pablo Neruda.