Monday, December 10, 2007

Poem for Monday, December 10, 2007

The Story

by Mark Strand

It is the old story: complaints about the moon

sinking into the sea, about stars in their first fading,

about the lawn wet with dew, the lawn silver, the lawn cold.

It goes on and on: a man stares at his shadow

and says it’s the ash of himself falling away, says his days

are the real black holes in space. But none of it’s true.

You know the one I mean: it’s the story about the minutes dying,

and the hours, and the years; it’s the story I tell

about myself, about you, about everyone.

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