Eclipse of the Moon by Mary Susanah Robbins - HTML preview

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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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