The Whip

Robert Creeley

I spent a night turning in bed,

my love was a feather, a flat

sleeping thing. She was

very white

and quiet, and above us on

the roof, there was another woman I

also loved, had

addressed myself to in

a fit she

returned. That

encompasses it. But now I was

lonely, I yelled,

but what is that? Ugh,

she said, beside me, she put

her hand on

my back, for which act

I think to say this

wrongly.