Robert Creeley

1926-2005 / Arlington, Massachusetts


Creo que si ... I believe
it will rain
tomorrow ... I believe
the son of a bitch
is going into the river ...
I believe All men are
created equal—By your
leave a leafy

shelter over the exposed
person—I'm a
believer creature
of habit but without

out there a void of
pattern older
older the broken
pieces no longer

salvageable bits
but incommensurate
chips yet must
get it back together.

In God we
trust emptiness privilege
will not not perish
perish from this earth—
In particular echo
of inside pushes
at edges all these years
collapse in slow motion.

The will to believe,
the will to be good,
the will to want
a way out—

Humanness, like
you, man. Us—pun
for once beyond reflective
mirror of brightening prospect?

I believe what it was
was a hope it could be
somehow what it was
and would so continue.

A plank to walk out on,
fair enough. Jump! said the pirate.
Believe me if all
those endearing young charms ...
Here, as opposed to there,
even in confusions there seems
still a comfort,
still a faith.

I'd as lief
not leave, not
go away, not
not believe.

I believe in belief ...
All said, whatever I can think of
comes from there,
goes there.

As it gets now impossible
to say, it's your hand
I hold to, still
your hand.
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