It’s very cold in the poem. All I have is the rhythm of my legs—spondaic—with an italic of gimp. And some mud. God might
the other’s begun to live in her dreams. The fact is, the eclipse was a miracle we didn’t ask for. I used to believe
I am not one of your Long-legged creatures Cloaked in some assemblage Of night on weaker wings, But I wish I could be More
Sometimes a woman who is not me, but another one, miles away, is braiding all the different strands of her life into one clean