Yesterday I wanted to speak of it, that sense above
the others to me important because all that I know
derives from what it teaches me. Today , what is it that
is finally so helpless,different, despairs of its own
statement, wants to turn away, endlessly to turn away.
If the moon did not...no, if you did not I would t either,
but what would I not do, what prevention, what thing so
quickly stopped. That is love yesterday or tomorrow, not
now. Can I eat what you give me. I have not earned it. Must
I think of everything as earned. Now love also becomes a reward
so remote from me I have only made it with my mind.
Here is tedium, despair, a painful sense of isolation and
whimsical if pompous self-regard. But that image is only of
the mind s vague structure, vague to me because it is my own.
Love, what do I think to say. I cannot say it. What have you
become to ask, what have I made you into, companion, good company,
crossed legs with skirt, or soft body under the bones of the bed.
Nothing says anything but that which it wishes would come true,
fears what else might happen in some other place, some other time
not this one. A voice in my place, an echo of that only in yours.
Let me stumble into not the confession but the obsession I begin
with now. For you
also ( also ) some time beyond place, or place beyond time, no mind
left to day anything at all, that face gone, now. Into the company of
love it all returns.
Robert Creeley
[)-D] [*)] |
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