Wednesday, February 22, 2017

For Love by Robert Creeley

For Love
    for Bobbie

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 wouldn’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 

say anything at all, 
that face gone, now. 
Into the company of love   
it all returns.


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