A poem for Thursday

I feel like information has been flowing through me differently this week. I'm thinking a lot about dispositions and epistemology. How knowledge registers differently with a slight shift in paradigm. That we can intellectually know something. We can even have empirical evidence. And yet we sometimes still do not incorporate that knowledge in a way that makes it reside in us as irrefutable and compelling fact; the kind that yields action. Isn't that fascinating?

This all has nothing to do with this poem really. Except to say this: I've read it before. But then I read it again, whatever had changed in my disposition made it the one I wanted to share with you this week. This is by Mark Strand.

From The Long Sad Party
Someone was saying
something about shadows covering the field, about
how things pass, how one sleeps toward morning
and the morning goes.

Someone was saying
how the wind dies down but comes back,
how shells are the coffins of wind
but the weather continues.

It was a long night
and someone said something about the moon shedding its white
on the cold field, that there was nothing ahead
but more of the same.

Someone mentioned
a city she had been in before the war, a room with two candles
against a wall, someone dancing, someone watching.
We began to believe

the night would not end.
Someone was saying the music was over and no one had noticed.
Then someone said something about the planets, about the stars,
how small they were, how far away.
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