The words are a beautiful music.
The words bounce in water.
Water music,
loud in the clearing
off the boats,
birds, leaves.
They look for a place
to sit and eat--
no meaning,
no point.

Robert Creeley (1926-2005).
©2015 by Trevon S. Haywood.

All night the sound had
come back again,
and again falls
this quite 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 descent happiness.

Robert Creeley (1926-2005).
©2015 by Trevon S. Haywood.

she drank from god's fountain
tore the rake and the peasant's plead
as the chariots blew across this storms foundry
new black ashes, soot stained faces

a gall from the mercurian lee
hunts dark places and wild dogs fear him
the forest is his legion but he shakes from this poison
there is no sky and the trees don't hide him

there is no universe unplugged
neither a human too forgone
to wrestle every inch of skin and sleep
to fight towards her against the leaves