Willis Barnstone




Mark Strand, Lone Sailor (1934-2014)

My parents rise out of their thrones
into the milky rooms of clouds. How can I sing?
Time tells me what I am. I change and I am the same.
I empty myself of my life and my life remains.
                                                           ‘The Remains’ — Mark Strand

I like to call Mark Strand Mark Twain.
They both are wry and love to laugh.
Strand is a spinning weathervane
arrowing both you and a daff-
y Mark, the tall and skeptical chief
striding through continents for word
and Hopper paintings. He’s the thief
of love, a gallant pirate bird
picking up careful seed to feed
each act of penmanship. I fear
the news is true. Mark has set sail.
Since our twenties we’ve watched the whale
of time scatter verbal seaweed.
Mark has entered his dark harbor.