Tuesday, May 16, 2006

We See Where That Went This Time

A mere 6 or so hour later. It looks now like it'll be the end of September.

In no way a comment on Kunitz, but those recent sentiments below will now have to be short lived. At least the title of the poem will be more appropriate at the next round. So it'll be a new season and not home that will get me through dust storms and itchy eyes.

In continuing with the theme, I leave you with three (apparently appropriately) unremitting Robert Creeley pieces.


On such a day
did it happen

by happy conincidence
just here.



Back a street is the sunken
pit of the erstwhile market
first century where the feral

cats now wait for something
to fall in and along the
far side is the place where

you get the bus, a broad
street divided by two
areas for standing with a

covered provision, etc. Antichi!
Zukofsky'd say--all of it
humbling age, the pitted, pitiful

busts someone's sprayed with blue
paint, the small streets laboring
with compacted traffic, the generous

dank stink floods the evening air
Where can we go we will not
return to? Each moment, somewhere.



Hard to be unaddressed-
Empty to reflection-
Take the road east-
Be where it is.

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