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Eclipse of the Moon

enclose.
Ever most precious, stillness is ecstasy
under our fingers. Silent minds to touch
yearn their lives long. We but approach this trust
as, motionless and concentrate, we strive
to touch with lips like hands the bidden fruit.
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Sometimes I hardly know which one of us I am.
Do I awake at eight? Have you nothing to do?
Does one of us smoke? Who writes the poems?
Sometimes I think we're here to play this game.
Sometimes you're us both and I just make the forms.
Most of the time I stitch overhand into you.
The rainy trellises, the sun through ferns, are
threads
Cutting us into each other, nourishing the joint.
Skies are broad roads on which we meet in grace.
Heads, blond, dark, love, anxiety — heads.
And sometimes I am just a little space
allowing you room. Or I'm my own heart's poison
point.
What times we have! Is it glorious, this impossible
balance?
But we are quick on our feet, and if we trip, or
grow
Too fast, I'll write it out for us. A poem without
moment,
without an overture, no occasional dance,
something the trees knew, something the sunset sent
without a title. — How that sounds like you!
Sometimes, like today, I think you're the whole
thing,
I'm a scribe asleep in the bright Egyptian sun
copying inspiration in effortless feathery curves.
This is a new way of loving to sing.
You are the poems my form and background serve.
And one of us is the tears that keep us one.
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Cassandra
When you know no one is within call,
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