What empty space exists around desire?

In a café, a woman insists that her friend take food off her plate. Each time the friend refuses, the woman murmurs, “it’s too much, it’s too much.”

Sappho’s ancient poems are just scraps now, surrounded by white desert space. Sand is ferocious enough to rub burnt rice off the bottom of a cooking pot; how can poetry stand up to it? The woman in the café …