The Rain
All night the sound had
come back again,
and again falls
this quiet, persistent rain.
What am I to myself
that must be remembered,
insisted upon
so often? Is it
that never the ease,
even the hardness,
of rain falling
will have for me
something other than this,
something not so insistent—
am I to be locked in this
final uneasiness.
Love, if you love me,
lie next to me.
Be for me, like rain,
the getting out
of the tiredness, the fatuousness, the semi-
lust of intentional indifference.
Be wet
with a decent happiness.
I had the great privilege of meeting Robert Creeley on several occasions and then carry on a bit of a correspondance with him for a few months. Initially I was so struck by his resemblance to my own father, even down to the one blind/bad eye. But what emerged in our emails was much more connection than instruction. His reading suggestions to me were not pat suggestions but had all the marks of his having listened and read. I can only hope that I was able to give him something, anything in return.
