There are poets I love but don’t read often. I want to always be surprised when I return to their poetry, to find new poems to love, and to discover new ways in which they wrote to make their poems resonant and seemingly inevitable, as if chiseled into time, if time were material.

Robert Creeley is one of those poets.

I don’t remember ever reading this poem before. Such a pure, and painterly, scene — a masterclass in description.