Most explicit— the sense of trap as a narrowing cone one's got stuck into and any movement forward simply wedges once more— but where or quite when, even with whom, since now there is no one quite with you—Quite? Quiet? English expression: Quait? Language of singular impedance? A dance? An involuntary gesture to others not there? What's wrong here? How reach out to the other side all others live on as now you see the two doctors, behind you, in mind's eye, probe into your anus, or ass, or bottom, behind you, the roto- rooter-like device sees all up, concludes "like a worn-out inner tube," "old," prose prolapsed, person's problems won't do, must cut into, cut out . . . The world is a round but diminishing ball, a spherical ice cube, a dusty joke, a fading, faint echo of its former self but remembers, sometimes, its past, sees friends, places, reflections, talks to itself in a fond, judgemental murmur, alone at last. I stood so close to you I could have reached out and touched you just as you turned over and began to snore not unattractively, no, never less than attractively, my love, my love—but in this curiously glowing dark, this finite emptiness, you, you, you are crucial, hear the whimpering back of the talk, the approaching fears when I may cease to be me, all lost or rather lumped here in a retrograded, dislocating, imploding self, a uselessness talks, even if finally to no one, talks and talks.
Robert Creeley - 1926-2005
A Wicker Basket
Comes the time when it's later and onto your table the headwaiter puts the bill, and very soon after rings out the sound of lively laughter— Picking up change, hands like a walrus, and a face like a barndoor's, and a head without any apparent size, nothing but two eyes— So that's you, man, or me. I make it as I can, I pick up, I go faster than they know— Out the door, the street like a night, any night, and no one in sight, but then, well, there she is, old friend Liz— And she opens the door of her cadillac, I step in back, and we're gone. She turns me on— There are very huge stars, man, in the sky, and from somewhere very far off someone hands me a slice of apple pie, with a gob of white, white ice cream on top of it, and I eat it— Slowly. And while certainly they are laughing at me, and all around me is racket of these cats not making it, I make it in my wicker basket.