playing in the Europe
of your mind.

No one on the cobblestones
just you and she on the Spanish dawn

In the distance horse hooves
clog out the rhythm

full-bodied, you entwine and sway
like an accompanying cello

as if that which moves
might finally reveal itself

in a language like
tiny leaf �copters

on your doorstep.



�2005 by Ray Sweatman