Several nites ago, P-Lo dreamt that we
were in a triangular elevator moving outta
control. Then the Triavator shot us out
onto a street where we found C-los.
With just beginning a habit to randomely
flip through Creeley's Selected Poems 1945-2005
once a day to start every new day, it landed
on this one:
NINE
There is no point
of rest here.
It wavers,
it reflects multiply
the three
times three.
Like a mirror
it returns here
by being here.
*
Perhaps in the
emphasis implicit-
over and over-
"triad of triads,"
"triply sacred and perfect
number"-that
resolves what-
in the shifting,
fading containment?
*
Somehow the game
where a nutshell covers
the one object, a
stone or coin, and
the hand is
quicker than the eye-
how is that nine,
and not three
chances, except that
three imaginations of it
might be, and there are
two who play-
making six, but
the world is real also,
in itself.
*
More. The nine months
of waiting that discover
life or death-
another life or death-
not yours, not
mine, as we watch.
*
The serial diminish-
ment or progression
of the products which
helped me remember:
nine times two is one-eight
nine times nin is eight-one-
at the end,
move forward, backward,
then, and the same
numbers will occur.
What law
or
mystery
is involved
protects
itself.
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