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Bury Your Face in Your Hands
Because we have crossed the river and the wind offers only a
numb uncoiling of cold and we have meekly adapter, no lon-
ger expecting more than we’ve been given, nor wondering
how it happened that we came to this place, we don’t mind
that nothing turned out as we thought it might. There is no
way to clear the haze in which we live, no way to know that
we have undergone another day. The silent snow of thought
melts before it has a chance to stick. Where we are is anyone’s
guess. The gates to nowhere multiply and the present is so far
away, so deeply far away.
From Mark Strand’s new collection of prose poems, Almost Invisible.