" The Woman"
I have never
clearly given to you
the associations
you have for me, you
with such
divided presence my dream
does not show
you. I do not dream.
I have compounded
these sensations, the
accumulation of the things
left me by you.
Always your
tits, not breasts, but
harsh sudden rises
of impatient flesh
on the chest--is it
mine--which flower
against the vagueness
of the air you move in.
You walk
such a shortness
of intent strides, your
height is so low,
in my hand
I feel the weight
of yours there,
one over one
of both, as you
pivot upon me, the
same weight grown
as the hair, the
second of your attributes,
falls to
cover us. We
couple but lie against
no surface, have
lifted as you again
grow small
against myself, into
the air. The
air the third of
the signs of you
are known by: a
quiet, a soughing silence,
the winds lightly
moved. Then
your
mouth, it opens not
speaking, touches,
wet, on me. Then
I scream, I
sing such as is
given to me, roar-
ing unheard,
like stark sight
sees itself
inverted
into dark
turned. Onanistic.
I feel around
myself what
you have left me
with, wetness, pools
of it, my skin
drips. "
― Robert Creeley , The Collected Poems of Robert Creeley, 1945-1975
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![Robert Creeley quote : The Woman](/image/2766897.jpg)
I have never
clearly given to you
the associations
you have for me, you
with such
divided presence my dream
does not show
you. I do not dream.
I have compounded
these sensations, the
accumulation of the things
left me by you.
Always your
tits, not breasts, but
harsh sudden rises
of impatient flesh
on the chest--is it
mine--which flower
against the vagueness
of the air you move in.
You walk
such a shortness
of intent strides, your
height is so low,
in my hand
I feel the weight
of yours there,
one over one
of both, as you
pivot upon me, the
same weight grown
as the hair, the
second of your attributes,
falls to
cover us. We
couple but lie against
no surface, have
lifted as you again
grow small
against myself, into
the air. The
air the third of
the signs of you
are known by: a
quiet, a soughing silence,
the winds lightly
moved. Then
your
mouth, it opens not
speaking, touches,
wet, on me. Then
I scream, I
sing such as is
given to me, roar-
ing unheard,
like stark sight
sees itself
inverted
into dark
turned. Onanistic.
I feel around
myself what
you have left me
with, wetness, pools
of it, my skin
drips." style="width:100%;margin:20px 0;"/>