<div>The Next Illogical Step In Love Poetry<br><br><i>"The next illogical step </i><br><i>in love poetry</i><br><i>The most inscrutable beautiful names in this world</i><br><i>always do sound like diseases.</i><br><i>It is because they are engorged. </i><br><i>G., I am a fool.</i><br><i>What we feel in the solar plexus wrecks us.</i><br><i>Halfway squatting on a crate where feeling happened. </i><br><i> Caresses."</i><br>--from "Dear Gonglya,"<br><br>At once hyper-contemporary and archaic, erotic, indecorous, and extravagant like nobody else, Brenda Shaughnessy seeks outrageous avenues of access to the heart, <i>"This strumpet muscle under your breast describing / you minutely, Volupt, volupt."</i><br></div>