For Love

By Robert Creeley

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.