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The Charm
by Robert Creeley My children are, to me,
what is uncommon: they are dumb
and speak with signs. Their hands
are nervous, and fit more for
hysteria, than goodwill or long
winterside conversation.
Where fire is, they are quieter
and sit, comforted. They were born
by their mother in hopelessness.
But in them I had been, at first,
tongue. If they speak,
I have myself, and love them.
From Selected Poems, 1945-2005 by Robert Creeley. Copyright © 2008 by Robert Creeley. Used by permission of University of California Press. All rights reserved.
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