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The Street

The neighborhood is old, you understand, a little shabby,

a little frayed at the cuffs.

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Sparrows baptize their young

in asphalt tidal pools;

thick white spires of foxglove

and lupine bless the air.

Sometimes, the geraniums tumble

over the edge of the window box,

playful as dolphins

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blurred into other dimensions

of time; we can almost commit

their wisdom to heart.

In rain, the slate roofs

glimmer like old pewter coins.

People migrate in and out

of houses, of dreams,

the ebb and flow

golden and mysterious as a child's faith.

Sometimes, a little light

slips through the spruces,

through the windows, to catch the kettle's

copper flank or the way a woman

leans toward the mirror

of her beliefs. We walk

out of the houses, into the rain,

on moon-worn stones;

our shoulders touch, words rub

against the moment like a cat

twining around and through

life after life.

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