Carl Phillips: Scattered Snows, to the North

I didn’t understand everything I read, but some lines stood out to me. For instance,in “Troubadours,” Phillips writes:

Life itself being a ramble of mystery, pattern, accident, and surprise, we took heart in knowing whatever road we were on must be the right one-or anyway, we believed it was, and belief still counts. We pressed forward. We weren’t afraid. Nor unafraid.

And in “Like So,” he writes:

From attention to adoration
is a smallish distance–

and yet no arrow, no boat
with sail

can cross it

like the mind’s insistence.

I should read the whole book again, slower. Will see!