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Eclipse of the Moon

but the world will not recover
as it waves from brave kiosks
knowledge that the worlds has faltered,
altered. Look, my sister asks.
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The morning fills me as a running river is filled with sunbeams
or a room, white curtains blowing, the busyness of
motes in light,
and the light is warm, and the motes swarm, never
leaving the pathway.
My body is so awake it dreams in the sunshine.
Remorseless, no darkness.
I will go out and down the river of streets in the
sun
changed to a form, a block of blue and black,
dreaming colors into the room
where the light is white, and the buildings move
on a wave, never leaving
their wakefulness in dreams. These streets will
become remorse,
my sorrow. I will be young and free, floating on
the wave of coming and leaving,
those rooms lapped with my gay tears will cluster
in blocks of blue light,
sunlight, a crowd of pathways and strong, quivering
lights,
lapped with my darkness, awake. I will touch every
sensation awake.
The day will be floating and free, and I will be
lost in the river
of dark rooms and bright skies, brilliant and still,
never ceasing, absorbing
my ecstasy of sorrow and light; or, pointed,
scenting, awake, my body
loses color, gains form, mourning this living
beauty.
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Spring, the Present
It's the season when I see what people mean.
A hemlock branch is catching the caught light
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