I never met you afterward nor seemingly knew you before. Our lives were interfolded, wrapped like a present

     1.
This distance
between pane of glass,
eye's sight—
the far waving green edge

of trees, sun's
reflection, light
yellow—and sky there too
light blue.

     2.
I will sit here
till breeze, ambient,
enfolds me and I
lift away. I will

sit here as sun
warms my hands, my
body eases and sounds
grow soft and intimate

in my ears. I will sit
here and back of the house
behind me will at last
disappear. I will sit here

     3.
Harry's gone out for pizza.
Mabel's home all alone.
Mother just left for Ibiza.
Give the old man a bone?

Remember when Barkis was willing?
When onions grew on the lawn?
When airplanes cost just a shilling?
Where have the good times gone?

     4.
If one looks back
or thinks to look
in that uselessly opaque direction,
little enough's ever there.

What is it one stares into,
thinks still to recover
as it all fades out—
mind's vagary?

I call to you brutally.
I remember the day we met
I remember how you sat, impatient
to get out.

Back is no direction...
Tout passe?
Life is the river
we've carried with us.

     5.
Sun's shadows aslant
across opening expansive
various green fields down

from door
here ajar on box tower's
third floor—

look out on
wonder.
This morning.

     6.
I never met you afterward
nor seemingly knew you before.
Our lives were interfolded,
wrapped like a present.

The odors, the tastes, the surfaces
of our bodies were the map—
the mind a distraction,
trying to keep up.

I could not compare you to anything.
You were not like rhubarb
or clean sheets—or, dear as it might be,
sudden rain in the street.

All those years ago, on the beach in Dover,
with that time so ominous,
and the couple so human,
pledging their faith to one another,

now again such a time seems here—
not to fear
death or what's been given—
to yield one's own despair.

     7.
Like sitting in backseat,
can't see what street
we're on or what the
one driving sees

or where we're going.
Waiting for what's to happen,
can't quite hear the conversation,
the big people, sitting up front.

     8.
Death, be not proud...
Days be not done.
Air be not gone.
Head be not cowed.

Bird be not dead.
Thoughts be not fled.
Come back instead,
Heart's hopeful wedding.

Face faint in mirror.
Why does it stay there?
What's become
Of person who was here?

     9.
Wet
       water
warm
       fire.

Rough
       wood
cold
       stone.

Hot
       coals
shining
       star.

Physical hill still my will.
Mind's ambience alters all.

     10.
As I rode out one morning
just at break of day
a pain came upon me
unexpectedly—

As I thought one day
not to think anymore,
I thought again,
caught and could not stop—

Were I the horse I rode,
were I the bridge I crossed,
were I a tree
unable to move,

the lake would have
no reflections,
the sweet, soft air
no sounds.

So I hear, I see,
tells still the echoing story
of all that lives in the forest,
all that surrounds me.

[Robert Creeley {1926-2005}, 'Pictures' from If I Were Writing This]