Eclipse of the Moon by Mary Susanah Robbins - HTML preview
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I am becoming enamored of prose.
I have turned my chair away from the window
to concentrate on objects that last.
My tables are set for conversation.
I brush aside the morning light like cobwebs.
The jay and the crow scratch air with their cries.
We will not sing. There must be some linear
of last night's dream to the whole.
There must be some extended highway of pulse,
some lateral road I walk, or am carried on.
I am falling in love with time.
I would lean on its arm as on an archetype.
I would write it letters about its heart.
But I am afraid of love.