I ran into this essay on Robert Creeley by his wife Penelope Creeley. It is a love song in prose.
Over the weekend I nearly took out a book of his letters from the London Library, but decided there were too many words in it for me. I got some simple art books instead.
Then a man told the returns desk that he was bringing his mother's books back as she had just died. It was one of those moments when it is ok to look across and acknowledge that I had overheard what he had just said.
I did a card for him at St James' Piccadilly and lit a candle too. No such thing as overkill in those circumstances.
Then I wanted to rest in peace while an orchestra rehearsed. That was when I realised I actually did want to read those letters of Robert Creeley, but I had firmly put him back on the shelf half an hour earlier.
I Know A Man - Robert Creeley
Plus the audio of him reading it - fabulous and disturbing.