Pastis

That’s how I’m reading
It, but then, a sip of bold
Told me to, yellow little,
They did, dared, that did,
But the chair slid under
The desk with the rest
Of the paper, pens, shyly
Dispensed, pretentiously,
French! pear, no, summer
Cold, chills, still, strung
On tiny white lights, cafe,
Maybe, or in front of the
Game playing till it ticks,
Sticks basketfuls, kisses
One, another, passes as
Anise’d dreaming seen
In writing and rereading

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