by Gerald Solomon

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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.

Gerald Solomon was born in London, MA at Cambridge, first worked in production at the BBC, then moved on to Middlesex University to teach the poetry course. Married with four children, he latterly came to live in New York, working as an artist-painter. American citizen. Previous work published in Baltimore Review , Illuminations, and others.

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