FROM A LITANY
Mark Strand There is an open field I lie down in a hole I once dug and I praise the sky. I praise the clouds that are like lungs of light. I praise the owl that wants to inhabit me and the hawk that does not. I praise the mouse’s fury, the wolf’s consideration. I praise the dog that lives in the household of people and shall never be one of them. I praise the whale that lives under the cold blankets of salt. I praise the formations of squid, the domes of meandra. I praise the secrecy of doors, the openness of windows. I praise the depth of closets, I praise the wind, the rising generations of air. I praise the trees on whose branches shall sit the Cock of Portugal and the Polish Cock. I praise the palm trees of Rio and those that shall grow in London. I praise the gardeners, the worms and he small plants that praise each other. I praise the sweet berries of Georgetown, Maine and the song of the white-throated sparrow. I praise the poets of Waverly Place and Eleventh Street, and the one whose bones turn to dark emeralds when he stands upright in the wind. I praise the clocks from which I grow old in a day and young in a day. I praise all manner of shade, that which I se and that which I do not. I praise all roofs from the watery roof of the pond to the slate roof of the customs house. I praise those who have made of their bodies final embassies of flesh. I praise the failure of those with ambition, the authors of leaflets and notebooks of nothing. I praise the moon for suffering men. I praise the sun its tributes. I praise the pain of revival and the bliss of decline. I praise all for nothing because there is no price. I praise myself for the way I have with a shovel and I praise the shovel. I praise the motive of praise by which I shall be reborn. I praise the morning whose sun is upon me. I praise the evening whose son I am. |
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