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19 Afternoon breaks like a fever. Cool air billows— a dark sheet snapped open, ripples heat wears into it all day shaken out. Not blue that has a name but like a Moorish dome painted to resemble it, inlaid with legions of stars and the moon. A plate of rice for which I’ll hunger. improvisation (nostalgia) Even in Kyoto— hearing the cuckoo’s cry— I long for Kyoto.¯ —Matsuo Basho, trans. Jane Hirshfield ...

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