Eclipse of the Moon by Mary Susanah Robbins - HTML preview

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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

in a jar so clearly full of memories

it enlarges like a trompe d'oeil or realism

of oils. The honeysuckle is vandalized too

from the public road, and wilder because more free.

When will I stop seeing that I have it

all your way and you have it all mine?

And Henry James is as clear as cut glass, books

where no one knows what anyone else means

and everyone acts accordingly. I can't

believe it: one doesn't have to, because it's true.

I see what people mean in saying, "It's worthwhile

if you feel you're being enlightened," and I wasn't.

I see what people meant about the season.

In spring I never knew I never knew.

I don't know how the jar's opaque light far side

Suddenly glows with the minutiae reflected,

what's next to it, becoming photographic

like lamplight through a scene on a shade, but


of its own depth, unprojected. You see what I mean.


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