It is cool outdoors, but the house is still almost uncomfortably warm at five o'clock in the morning. The rhythm of the crickets is faster now. When go out, I catch a whiff of sweet fragrance released by some nearby flowering plant. I walk toward the driveway and, as I pass the tall shrubs at the end of the walk, I feel a strand of spider silk on my face. In the darkness, I don't know if the spider is still clinging to the end of it, being taken for an unexpected ride. The morning paper has arrived. Pale light reveals its pale presence on the black asphalt. I pick it up, and the rubber band twangs slightly. Here comes the moment when the birds will begin to chirp chirp chirp. I await the sound while the sweet scent, not quite honeysuckle, displaces the substance of the world. Left alone with fragrance, I fail to notice the earth turn until the growing light reveals a sky filled with drifting clouds. Then the robin loudly tells his fellows to wake up, and I wake too. How long did I stand there, I wonder? As I return to the house, I feel the slight tug of a fresh strand of spider silk.
by Mark Strand
I empty myself of the names of others. I empty my pockets. I empty my shoes and leave them beside the road. At night, I turn back the clocks; I open the family album and look at myself as a boy.
What good does it do? The hours have done their job. I say my own name. I say goodbye. The words follow each other downwind. I love my wife but send her away.
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.