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this street of newspaper
deliveries and bakers
already activating yeast,
4 a.m. dream awoke me.
The Brazilian house
painters aren’t yet waiting
for The City Supply
and Paint Company doors
to open; and the shivering
birds haven’t started
salvaging for Fernandes
Fish Market scraps.
My stovetop espresso
percolates Sumatra;
and I, no matter what
Romney proposes, live
to interact by way of
Asia. South America. Europe.
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