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Editor's
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Three
Poems
by
Gerald Solomon
Message
Sometimes
hawks come overhead. You see them appear, two, three, five
at a time, looking down for mice to eat. Near the hayfield,
where the garden ends, my wife, tying up the
bean-sticks. Working steadily there, too far to hear me
call. Up here in the shade, trying to read, intending to
understand, I think of my books indoors, my rows and rows
of books. There, the names working to believe, writing down
what they need, words that make words behave, trying to
join far with near. They may not have some words I need
most of all for myself.... When you come you'll see our house,
the last one in the road.
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Going
There
I
set out in time but stopped to look where the road bends and
you see small mountains far off. So far off they hint another
path. Looking, something new filled my mind, the way
sunlight goes into water, touching nothing, changing
everything. Tell me then I’m wrong in this: a kind of
happening, besides chemical truth, has no good formula for
need, or trust?
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Above
The Desert
Empty air six miles falling down. We all look below at
planet dust — Mohave the brown, turning on a local
rim. Soft rock, a desert rubs away. We pass like some
ordinary asteroid. I’m on my way home. Yes, but
looking down out of the sky! Pale metals: heavy wing, smooth
fairings above a wandering unplanned cloud. Up here this
blazing light can stupefy. Amazed tourist, how tally what you
think, ideas too high from worn ground?
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