Mark Strand: The Ghost Ship

Through the crowded street
It floats

Its vague
Tonnage like wind.

It glides
Through the sadness

Of slums
To the outlying fields.

Slowly,
Now by an ox,

Now by a windmill,
It moves.

Passing
At night like a dream

Of death,
it cannot be heard;

under the stars
It steals.

Its crew
And passengers stare;

Whiter than bone,
Their eyes

Do not
Turn or close.