I had not heard of Mark Strand until I read an interview between him and Wallace Shawn that is reprinted in Shawn’s Essays. The following is one of his most famous poems. It is also a hoot.
There is no happiness like mine
I have been eating poetry.
Her eyes are sad
and she walks with her hands in her dress.
The light is dim.
The dogs are on the basement stairs and coming up.
Their blond legs burn like brush.
The poor librarian begins to stamp her feet and weep.
When I get on my knees and lick her hand,
I snarl at her and bark.
I romp with joy in the bookish dark.