Thursday, September 4, 2008


Robert Creeley (1990)

I’ve thought of myself
as objective, viz,
a thing round which
lines could be drawn–

or else placed by years, the average
some sixty, say, a relative
number of months, days,
hours and minutes.

I remember thinking of war
and peace and life
for as long as I can remember.
I think we were right.

But it changes, it thinks
it can all go on forever
but it gets older.
What it wants is rest.

I’ve thought of place
as how long it takes
to get there and of where
it then is.

I’ve thought of clouds, of water
in long horizontal bodies, or
of love and women and the children
which came after.

Amazing what mind makes
out of its little pictures,
the squiggles and dots,
not to mention the words.

1 comment:

dan said...

from The Best American Poetry (1990)