Getting out cleopatra mathis analysis of variance

That year we hardly slept, walking like inmates
who beat the walls. Every night
another refusal, the silent work
of tightening the heart.
Exhausted, we gave up; escaped
to the apartment pool, swimming those laps
until the first light relieved us.

Days were different: FM and full-blast
blues, hours of guitar "you gonna miss me
when I'm gone." Think how you tried
to pack up and go, for weeks stumbling
over piles of clothing, the unstrung tennis rackets.
Finally locked into blame, we paced
that short hall, heaving words like furniture.

I have the last unshredded pictures
of our matching eyes and hair.

We've kept
to separate sides of the map,
still I'm startled by men who look like you.
And in the yearly letter, you're sure to say
you're happy now.

Also, rereading Cleopatra Mathis's new and selected which opens with poems on long-term illness.

Also, rereading Cleopatra Mathis's new and selected which opens with poems on long-term illness.

) Cleopatra Mathis.

As a young writer I was so wrapped up in myself that much of what they said was going in one ear and out the other.

October , I was invited to lunch with her, Grace Paley, and three other poets from the Dartmouth faculty—William Cook,.

Magazine for fourteen years before retiring recently.

Yet I think of the lawyer's bewilderment
when we cried, the last day. Taking hands
we walked apart, until our arms stretched
between us. We held on tight, and let go.

By Cleopatra Mathis

Afterthought

Written on 20 November 2005, Sunda