July 2005 / Volume Six / Issue Four
George Freek

When you walk down
a secluded street,
rain sinks into the earth.

Ideas should settle in the mind
that easily.
And you also fit

together so perfectly
my words
seem to abuse it.

You’re like a vast room
where all the corners
touch each other

at impossible angles,
as I think of you,
walking down that street,

and over your head a few
flashing swallows
find in the quick sunset

a calm silence and
an excuse for living.
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