The Next Time
Perfection is out of the question for people like us,
so why plug away at the same old self when the landscape
has opened its arms and given us marvelous shrines
to flock towards? The great motels to the west are waiting,
in somebody’s yard a pristine dog is hoping that we’ll drive by,
and on the rubber surface of a lake people bobbing up and down
will wave. The highway comes right to the door, so let’s
take off before the world out there burns up. Life should be more
than the body’s weight working itself from room to room.
A turn through the forest will do us good, so will a spin
among the farms. Just think of the chickens strutting,
the cows swinging their udders, and flicking their tails at flies.
And one can imagine prisms of summer light breaking against
the silent, haze-filled sleep of the farmer and his wife.
—Mark Strand
