Eclipse of the Moon HTML version

and blowing through the storm
defies all harm.
Weaker, would never bend,
now finds its end
in testing sorrow's root
and perpetual fruit.
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Robert thinks my poems are too pure.
"Something is sacrificed to diction."
A teacher of versewriting and fiction,
Robert'd sacrifice a lot to speak sure.
Joe thinks my words interchangeable,
"'Familiar' and 'comfort' are the same."
I half tell him of my counting game;
I find Joe's comfort estrangeable.
Phil likes some lines, but can't say why
in a letter. Letters are all I get
from Phil. All last year I was high
in my lines, in my letters. Phil hasn't been here
There must be some man inside me, for
what men say of my rhymes adds a taste
to the ink. Is it all a sad waste? —
I've thought so at work on this before.
Tom loves my poems and loves me.
But death is familiar to Tom, so,
estrangeable poems, comfort, go,
start sure, fall off high, and let him be.
For women, love's so male muses, then.
Love's a funny thing just to write on.
It's not enough, maybe. I heighten
my heart aloud. That confuses men.
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You call me back when I recall the past.
Don't fidget, love, you cannot come to harm
among these black and brightening honey-swarms:
we are the fitted cells that hold all fast.