“How can you do this?”
So that question comes,
Comes out in a hiss
Leaked through lips and gums.

How can you say that?
It’s all been heard before.
It all got said or spat
As he went out the door.

Swirling Swallows beneath the bridge
Are free as butterflies to fly.
They’re free to fly over the edge,
Or fly through a crack in the sky.

While spitting out your rights,
You forget what’s right.
Through all his days and nights
The Swallow’s right is flight.

What you want to do
Is tend to your garden.
Between the dawn and dew,
The ghost writer rides on.

Still he rides, and still
The tide resists his will.
Still he rights, and still
Builds on the outward wall
In the road of the squall.