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After Lu Yu


Petals dot
my cup

of
green wine,

light-
ly tramps

the skinny
horse through yellow

dust,
great lines

of poetry
I pass by.



Dead friends
call on me

at night. I ask
to be sent

to the front:
itch for

the fight’s
still on me.

Old man
in the mirror.



A cool morning, pleasant, little paperwork.
I sit at my desk by the window and listen to thunder.