Today I read a note on my dairy book dated February 1990 where I had attended a poetry reading by Mark Strand at Writer's Workshop at the University of Iowa. The reminiscence of that day made me read more about his poetry.
Everyone who has sold himself wants to buy himself back.
Nothing is done. The night
eats into their limbs
like a blight.
The future is not what it used to be.
The graves are ready. The dead
shall inherit the dead.