The Alan Sondheim Mail Archive

My Eclipse

"Are there bread-crumbs on the moon?" I ask M.
"There's precisely one bread-crumb on the moon."
He offers me whiskey and I drink half-glass; he won't stop otherwise,
We're staring at the stars.
A large Hudson drives down the street below us, full of merry-makers;
it's the total eclipse of the moon!
It's three in the morning and we haven't seen anything yet.
It's four.
It's five in the morning and the curtain descends at a distance.
You can see earthlight as frustrated earth denies its own shadow.
"There you are, that's the disk I've been telling you about."
"The moon is round, isn't it?"
The bread-crumb would have dried up by now, blown hither and yon by
lunar winds.
"There aren't any lunar winds."
"Are you telling me... because of the vacuum... the very absence of air...
that the moon is windless? I don't believe it!"
"I've heard that, it must be true! Not a breeze!"
"Nothing! Not a breeze!"

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