“The Dead” (Mark Strand, 1968)

As promised, here is one more by Strand, also from his 1968 collection Reasons for Moving. His language is simple, which for me helps it to cut deep.

The Dead

The graves grow deeper.
The dead are more dead each night.

Under the elms and the rain of leaves,
The graves grow deeper.

The dark folds of the wind
Cover the ground. The night is cold.

The leaves are swept against the stones.
The dead are more dead each night.

A starless dark embraces them.
Their faces dim.

We cannot remember them
Clearly enough. We never will.

I am looking forward to more Strand, in time. However, next week I am going to start looking at some Asian-American poets, as the outrageous behaviour of a certain white man in pretending to be a Chinese woman has made me realise that I know very little about Asian-American authors.

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