Tracy K. Smith
Life on Mars
Let your fingers do the walking.
I think of your hands all those years ago
Learning to maneuver a pencil, or struggling
To fasten a coat. […]
At night, of the fingers wrangling something
from your nose, or buried in the cave of your ear.
Give a man a stick, and he’ll hurl it at the sun
For his dog to race toward as it falls. He’ll relish
Perhaps one day it will be enough to live a few seasons and return to ash.
No children to carry our names. No grief. Life will be a brief, hollow walk.
“The Speed of Belief”
The genius lies not only in the control of the enjambement but also in the gestural carrying on and a sense of a constant contemplation. A walk through the hollow. A short walk.
And so for day 1590