Eating Poetry

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

The librarian does not believe what she sees.
Her eyes are sad
and she walks with her hands in her dress.

The poems are gone.
The light is dim.
The dogs are on the basement stairs and coming up.

Their eyeballs roll,
their blond legs burn like brush.
The poor librarian begins to stamp her feet and weep.

She does not understand.
When I get on my knees and lick her hand,
she screams.

I am a new man.
I snarl at her and bark.
I romp with joy in the bookish dark.

-Mark Strand

Homely.

There is a house built out of stone
where everyone goes to be alone
Winter
Spring
Summer
Fall
No one really knows anyone, at all

A house of tiles
in the graces of weak grout
Small enough to guard thoughts
So as not to echo about

BIg enough for everyone to keep hiding-out
But small enough to hear the next person shout

There is a place in between sticks and stones
where you can sit still
but let your mind freely roam
Windows face outwards so that you don't have to face each other
Framing a view of the stars and skies
instead of your mother

Door ways open slightly, if even open at all
Darkness returns before cars do
Say hello to fall

And summer - oh summer
Goodbye to you
And your flaming concrete pavement
and all that you do

Goodbye flaming orange-blue skies
and hurtful worn-out goodbyes
and bloody summer-time wars
Somebody said we're ready to open the doors

So Winter, Spring, Summer, Fall
Leave us alone no more in the backyard of green and chrome
In the moon shadows between that place far away and home
You can find us somewhere in that house built of stone