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A Poem: Julian 

I cling to my books, talk to

myself and a cab driver, find

him out of the blue, white

plum wine, his unhasty grin,

sashimi, we drink, I spin at

him, we cross the city, summer's

unsteady, we look at art, I

make up words, East 4th is

uneven, I lean, the heat, the

sidewalks break, my hair twirls,

his eyebrows connect, I whirl,

he takes me home, I pretend, he

asks me to sign my name on the

horizontal hair across his forehead,

I write all over his square face

with sake, warm haiku, he

asks me again, he's sure, the

line is so straight that I do.

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