Thursday, March 31, 2005

THE INNER LIFE for Robert Creeley

It’s no secret
I’m little more
than the congress
of my thoughts

the body mostly
bewilders or else
carries on in
its ambient ways

god has yet to
intrude, the sun
and dirt feel much
closer, as do

friends and family
who are likewise
astounding in their
goodness, while often

there is no real task
at hand, one’s fingers
lightly sweeping
the dingy surface

of the keys, eyes
trained inward
as a thing incapable
of so many things

but pleased within
thought, the inner
life being the only
life according

to Noel, a quiet light
ordering shadows
about the deck
of a caravel, unraveling

lines to make some
headway through
the debris of a vast
and impenetrable

sea, it’s no secret
the heart continues
despite blindness
just as our eyes

only see a fraction
of what the mind
determines, perhaps
led by what people

call the soul, an idea
I revile, feeling
the center of one
to be forever

radiating outward
to tangle and be
wove, which brings
one back to the heart

which has always
seemed an apt if
pleasantly hilarious
metaphor to me

misshapen, muscular
tough as one’s fist

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