Mark Strand - Storm

On the last night of our house arrest

a howling wind tore through the streets,

ripping down shutters, scattering roof tiles,

leaving behind a river of refuse. When the sun

rose over the marble gate, I could see the guards,

sluggish in the morning heat, desert their posts

and stagger toward the woods just out of town.

“Darling,” I said, “let’s go, the guards have left,

the place is a ruin.” But she was oblivious.

“You go,” she said, and she pulled up the sheet

to cover her eyes. I ran downstai...