The World

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. 

 

-- Robert Creeley