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274 A Face to Meet the Faces Li Po Of Course Drinking Kenneth Pobo I lug wine to a mountain— sit, and poems visit like ants tickling my feet. Maybe Tu Fu will return. When I saw him last, we discussed dust. Even the Emperor’s pleasure is a snapped twig— Tu Fu agreed, but though I called to his back I knew I couldn’t join or stop him. Another sip. The wine tastes like crushed wood, bitter, yet I drink more. Look, a violet. Perfectly shaped, slightly brown at the edges. ...

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