EDITOR’S Note

AD I BEEN ABLE TO LISTEN TO MY VOICE MAIL AN HOUR earlier, I’d like to think Robert Creeley and I would have enjoyed breakfast together on that crisp autumn morning in 2003 when he called me. After I arrived at the office, I heard the obituary, reminds me of something Creeley told me in our earlier interview, about his having written to Ezra Pound and Williams in the late 1940s, “hoping for their help with a fledgling magazine that never got really started—but, most important, it gave me a chance to say how much each meant to me,” he said. “When I was finally able to visit Williams in the mid-fifties, I recall almost keeling over when he appeared suddenly at the door. I remember him asking me if I was all right, just that I looked so pale. When I said I had never been so afraid of meeting someone in my life, he answered, ‘Who? Me? Come in, come in!’”