2002 by Mark Strand

2002

I am not thinking of Death, but Death is thinking of me.

He leans back in his chair, rubs his hands, strokes

His beard and says, “I’m thinking of Strand, I’m thinking

That one of these days I’ll be out back, swinging my scythe

Or holding my hourglass up to the moon, and Strand will appear

In a jacket and tie, and together under the boulevards’

Leafless trees we’ll stroll into the city of souls. And when

We get to the Great Piazza with its marble mansions, the crowd

That had been waiting there will welcome us with delirious cries,

And their tears, turned hard and cold as glass from having been

Held back so long, will fall, and clatter on the stones below.

                    O let it be soon. Let it be soon.”