Mark Strand Poems

In a field
I am the absence
of field.
...

I empty myself of the names of others. I empty my pockets.
I empty my shoes and leave them beside the road.
At night I turn back the clocks;
......
...

It shines in the garden,
in the white foliage of the chestnut tree,
in the brim of my father's hat
as he walks on the gravel.
...

A rough sound was polished until it became
a smoother sound, which was polished until
it became music.
...

Tell yourself
as it gets cold and gray falls from the air
that you will go on
walking, hearing
...

From the shadow of domes in the city of domes,
A snowflake, a blizzard of one, weightless, entered your room
And made its way to the arm of the chair where you, looking up
From your book, saw it the moment it landed.
...

Ink runs from the corners of my mouth.
There is no happiness like mine.
I have been eating poetry.
...

The relatives are leaning over, staring expectantly.
They moisten their lips with their tongues. I can feel
them urging me on. I hold the baby in the air.
Heaps of broken bottles glitter in the sun.
...

Even this late it happens:
the coming of love, the coming of light.
You wake and the candles are lit as if by themselves,
stars gather, dreams pour into your pillows,
...

When you see them
tell them I am still here,
that I stand on one leg while the other one dreams,
that this is the only way,
...