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Poem	The sky is crumbling into millions of paper dots the wind blows in my face so I duck into my favorite barber shop and listen to Vivaldi and look in the mirror reflecting the shopfront windows, Broadway and 104th, and watch the dots blown by the wind blow into the faces of the walkers outside & here comes a thin old man swaddled in scarves, he must be seventy-five, walking slowly, and in his mind there is a young man dancing, maybe seventeen years old, on a June evening -- he is that young man, I can tell, watching him walk
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