“Exhaustion at Sunset” by Mark Strand
The empty heart comes home from a busy day at the office. And what is the empty heart to do but empty itself of emptiness. Sweeping out the unsweepable takes an effort of mind, the fruitless exertion of faculties already burdened. Poor empty heart, old before its time, how it struggles to do what the mind tells it to do. But the struggle comes to nothing. The empty heart cannot do what the mind commands. It sits in the dark, daydreams, and the emptiness grows.
“Untitled” by Tomaž Šalamun
my only love,
give me rest.
Rest in peace, Mark. Thanks for the poetry, for keeping things whole in your own way.
And as always, if you’ve read (or seen) something that you feel is part of this conversation, please share.