Coming Home...

Words

You are always
with me,
there is never
a separate

place. But if
in the twisted
place I
cannot speak,

not indulgence
or fear only,
but a tongue
rotten with what

it tastes- There is
a memory
of water, of
food, when hungry

Some day
will not be
this one, then

words, like a
clear, fine
ash sifts
like dust,

from nowhere.

Robert Creeley









: In Public
: New York Times
: Op-Chart A Year in Iraq and Afghanistan