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


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



What times we have! Is it glorious, this impossible


But we are quick on our feet, and if we trip, or


Too fast, I'll write it out for us. A poem without


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


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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