The Tools

The Tools - Robert Creeley

First there, it proves to be still here.   

Distant as seen, it comes then to be near.   

I found it here and there unclear.

What if my hand had only been   

extension of an outside reaching in

to work with common means to change me then?

All things are matter, yet these seem   

caught in the impatience of a dream,   

locked in the awkwardness they mean.

Chicago

So.... I'm in Chicago. Here's a Creeley poem, aptly named "Chicago":

Say that you're
       lonely - and want
something to
       place you -

going around groping
       either by mind
or hand - but behind
       the pun is a

door you keep open,
       one way,
so they won't touch you
       and still let you stay.

I can't see in
       this place more
than the walls
       and door -
a light flat
       and air hot,
and drab, drab, drab
       and locked.

Would dying be here?
Never go anywhere you
       can't live.

Concrete blocks painted an "off white" yellow tone - institu-
tional - very noisy, senses of people next side of wall, etc.
Get used to shrinking space - They'll let you out when
there's reason.