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Poetry

The swallows dive near and twist
Their invisible strings as if
Binding you hand and foot,
And tumble away, swallows like souls
In paradise, whispering, “Here is one
Who will increase our loves….”

Every summer they came, they must have—
Who could stop them?—to build
Where they had built, looping
The same knot theories and proofs.

Agile as bats in a blind swoop questing,
Never questioning, darting
Below the arches of sinister wording,
They must have seemed free.

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