The World

The World
by Robert Creeley, 1962


I wanted so ably
to reassure you, I wanted
the man you took to be me,


to comfort you, and got
up, and went to the window,
pushed back, as you asked me to,


the curtain, to see
the outline of the trees
in the night outside.


The light, love,
the light we felt then,
greyly, was it, that


came in, on us, not
merely my hands or yours,
or a wetness so comfortable,


but in the dark then
as you slept, the grey
figure came so close


and leaned over,
between us, as you
slept, restless, and


my own face had to
see it, and be seen by it,
the man it was, your


grey lost tired bewildered
brother, unused, untaken—
hated by love, and dead,


but not dead, for an
instant, saw me, myself
the intruder, as he was not.


I tried to say, it is
all right, she is
happy, you are no longer


needed. I said,
he is dead, and he
went as you shifted


and woke, at first afraid,
then knew by my own knowing
what had happened—


and the light then
of the sun coming
for another morning
in the world.