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sunday find me

in my dream
I sit in a coffee shop
composing haiku –
counting syllables
on caramel fingers
a reactionary in flip-flops
aging white linens
and faded parasols
tourists burning red –
alive in dime store
stories

sunlight see saws
across muddled
pink rimmed skies
whispers fill the street
I order another cappucine
swirling with foam regalia
– my collected box of
memory

in my dream I am
a mere student of words
stealing minutes
from your sunset
before the moon smiles
o’er nights well remembered
from light years ago
when the stars
were our children

. . .

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