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even when you think you are knowing yourself the most, telling it in words in your head as close to your truth as is can be, somehow you still miss. Sometimes, you still lie

Is that a shortcoming of language--the way you frame the world, even to yourself?
Or maybe a shortcoming in scope, all the while zooming in, like your superego as life pushes along--the ages, the days-- like a fractal, always more specific, obliterating the preciseness of the last to the point it might've been inaccurate. Wrong. I was wrong. I am right, I know myself, now.

So what is this--what is that poetry of Creeley numbing with truth? I guess it is a process, and Creeley knows it with confidence, knows this is the way truth simply is in human life (and death (he does not try painting the afterlife; it will just come, it's not his field)): the words we say, lyrically, with our breath, to no one but ourselves, at that time in our lives where we know no better. It's as close as we can get. And we keep refining and revising it. Or living by it, when we have hit it. But we take chances, acting, that is the stuff of life.