tub.
And
the world, the world, we
could think of, here, to-
gether, a flash of instant, a
million years of time.
Don’t, myself, be an
old man yet, I want to
move out and into this
physical, endless place.
Water
moves at the edges,
blue, green,
white twistsÂ
of foam.
What then
will be lost,
recovered.
WhatÂ
matters as one
in this world?
Robert Creeley.
