THEY
I wondered what had
happened to the chords.
There was a music,
they were following
a pattern. It was
an intention perhaps.
No field
but they walk
in it. No place
without them, any
discretion is useless.
They want a time, they
have a time, each
one in his place, an
endless arrival.
— Robert Creeley (1926 – 2005), American poet.
