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Kevin. Percussionist. Paris.
And one-word questions:
You? Drink? Later?
When responses come he’s
smoke rings trailing pianissimo,
eyeing his options as women
hover. He drinks too fast,
his eyes are agate blue.
She’s a ripe pomegranate,
straining against the pith.
Her irises open to let him in.
by Myna Wallin
from: The Old
Abandonment, ©2003
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