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(R) (R) (R) (R)

Even if the world did send us letters
the clerk would brush her black hair back
from her forehead as she pronounced my foreign name,
still hand me the book, casually,
and make change taking in my strange white face
as if it were the moon,
while our wordless exchange continues like drifting clouds
above the dark waters of her brow,
its mahogany hair shored
exposing the carmine dot like an island or an eye:

(R) (R) (R) (R) (R)

(R) (R) (R) (R)