by Robert Creeley
Out of the table endlessly rocking,
sea shells and firm,
I saw a face appear
which called me dear.
To be loved is half the battle
I thought.
To be
is to be better than is not.
Now when you are old what will you say?
You don’t say,
she said.
That was on a Thursday.
Friday night I left
and haven’t been back since.
Everything is water
if you look long enough.
From:
The New American Poetry 1945-1960, Donald Allen
Copyright ©:
University of California Press (1999)
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