What light is this that says the air is golden,
That even the green trees can be saved
For a moment and look bejeweled,
That my hand, as I lift it over the shade
Of my body, becomes a flame pointing the way
To a world from which no one returns, yet towards
Which everyone travels? The sheen of the possible
Is adjusting itself to a change of venue: the look
Of farewell, the sun dipping under the clouds,
Faltering at the serrated edge of the mountains,
Then going quickly. And the new place, the night,
Spacious, empty, a tomb of lights, turning away,
And going under, becoming what no one remembers.
Mark Strand
from Dark Harbor
