Today I read On Earth by Robert Creeley. It's his last book of poems, and he must've known it would be. Somber, reflexive.
The first poem, "When I think," moved me. The breathlessness of it is unusual for him, but the enjambment is classic Creeley. There's no other poet that I've admired as persistently as Creeley, and if it's for any one reason it's for the way he's able to represent the voice catching with emotion, stumbling, clumsily putting together a beautiful thought . . .
I'm staying at Maria's parents' house with her while her folks are out of town. The night is perfectly quiet. Do you ever feel like you're running too hot? My body is bristling with nervous energy. Way, way ahead of the moment.