These wrinkles are nothing These gray hairs are nothing, This stomach which sags with old food, these bruised and swollen ankles, my darkening brain, they are nothing. I am the same boy my mother used to kiss.
Mark StrandThe number of people writing poems is vast, and their reasons for doing so are many, that much can be surmised from the stacks of submissions.
Mark StrandInk runs from the corners of my mouth. There is no happiness like mine. I have been eating poetry.
Mark Strand