Fire by Robert Creeley

I’ve been doing this thing where I am working myself ragged for days. I feel so exhausted – my brain could run for hours if I let it, but my back is proclaiming agony. Surprisingly though my heart is doing well. No weeping of any kind. Yes! Isn’t that fantastic? Or maybe I am just going insane again.

So here: I’ve decided to leave the city. For a day, that is. In a few hours, I’m going to leave its filth, its drama, its persnickety ways. Rest. Breathe. Lose myself. And maybe find it again.

Fire
Robert Creeley

Clear smoke,
a fire in the far off
haze of summer,
burning somewhere.

What is
a lonely heart for
if not
for itself alone.

Do the questions
answer themselves,
all wonder
brought to a reckoning?

When you are done,
I am done,
then it seems that
one by one

we can leave it all,
to go on.

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