by Daniel Hoffman
Your time has come, the yellowed
light of the weary sun
wavers in the foliage.
It’s no use, no use to linger.
So, goodbye, day.
by Don Lee
It was noon when Dean Kaneshiro arrived at Oriental Hair Poet Number Two’s house, and as she opened the door, she said, blinking, “Hello. Come in. I’m sorry. I’m not quite awake.”
He carried his measuring rig through the living room, noting the red birch floor, the authentic Stickley, the Nakashima table, the Maloof credenza—good craftsmanship, carefully selected. This poet, Marcella Ahn, was a woman who knew wood.
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