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By Abraham Romney
We have hung you above our heads,
white letters over green.
You perch on 7th Street or above 12th.
You dangle below September Blvd.
I saw you last in Anaheim.
Mr. Euclid, sir, we have
given you a rectangle,
placed you at right angles,
and dangled your name
on the edge of straight lines, parallel.
Come with me, Mr. Euclid.
Sweep the streets with your robes.
Hang your smile on this place.
Peer with me through a window
at rows of desks,
students, a teacher’s wild blue eyes behind glasses.
Your name in white
rests on a green chalkboard
beside 300 B.C.
© Copyright 1997, 2019, The Fairfield Review Inc., All Rights Reserved.
Document last modified on: 01/06/2007