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This house.

Such familiar space out there, the window frame's locating

focus I could walk holding on to

through air from here to there, see it where

now fog's close denseness floats the hedgerow up

off apparent ground, the crouched, faint trees lifting up

from it, and more close down there in front

by roof's slope, down, the stonewall's conjoining, lax boulders sit,

years' comfortable pace unreturned, placed by deliberation and

limit make their sprawled edge. Here again inside

the world one thought of, placed in this aged box moved here from

family site lost as us, time's spinning confusions

are what one holds on to. Hold on, dear house,

'gainst the long hours of emptiness, against the wind's tearing force.

You are my mind made particular, my heart in its place.
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Author:Creeley, Robert
Publication:The American Poetry Review
Date:Mar 1, 1993
Previous Article:June 21, 1989.
Next Article:Parade.

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