Brief Readings

From Mark Strand's The Continuous Life - the title poem ends with this:

Say that each of you tries
To keep busy, learning to lean down close and hear
The careless breathing of earth and feel its available
Langour come over you, wave after wave, sending
Small tremors of love through your brief,
Undeniable selves, into your days, and beyond.

How might one put it? His poems are graced by occasional lapidary moments ("your brief,/ Undeniable selves"), but I likely won't come back to him.


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