Robert Creeley passed away this morning at age 78. He is responsible for the way I write letters.

The Conspiracy

You send me your poems,
I'll send you mine.

Things tend to awaken
even through random communication

Let us suddenly
proclaim spring. And jeer

at the others,
all the others.

I will send a picture too
if you will send me one of you.

-- Robert Creeley

Small Ghost Poem

Say it's the leaves, the way they rustle.
Say it's a shadow, the scraping of a stick.
Childhood friends, dead and buried—

they're out there now, small ghosts
who never knew when enough was enough.
One who ran into a car, one who tripped

on a stone and fell on a stick that poked
through his heart. Lost and forgotten,
they've gone into the world to become

the snap of a branch, the skittering
of leaves. What are they whispering?
It's late and it's cold. They want to come in.

-- Lawrence Raab