Eclipse of the Moon by Mary Susanah Robbins - HTML preview
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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.