Brian Swann



I pretend the branches make the growing dark

 when really darkness is the glare from something

back of it all. Looking for it I trip over

 my shadow, and a storm approaches without

a trace of sound. Driving distances of rain

 play in the nameless. On clouds grind

over silent houses. One leans into a lake

 that doubles its world, bending it round

as if something were meant.

Copyright 2003 Brian Swann.  All Rights Reserved.

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