Eclipse

Don’t borrow trouble,
says the sun,
then ducks out of sight.

Somebody holds up a sheet of synthetic
mica. A pinhole; a needle
jammed through blank cardboard.

All our own fires
too, will someday
go out. We stand

for an hour with sorrow
over our covered
eyes, while the moon’s

body double
pretends she can protect us
with her shadow, as if

whatever we had to afford
to lead a happy life had
...