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Poems


Violinist

And what was I to make, pray tell,
Of the blind man on the uptown N,
playing the violin?

When his song had ended,
He made his way through the car
Bumping against me, and others,

Thin white cane clutched in the same hand as
The neck of the violin.
As he passed a second time,

I thought I saw
His right eye moving toward --
No, seeing --

The thigh of the woman in front of me.

May 1996


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