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By Antony Huen
You grabbed my wrist to draw in the air,
connecting five stars with my fingertip.
That’s your sign and in the Chinese zodiac,
a ghost riding in a flying carriage.
We’d drawn an upside-down Y
or the Chinese word for man (人);
but something broke through his legs,
then the frames of our glasses.
You made us make a wish and I was
staring at your mole the whole time.
Now we talk about prospects as we go down
the stairs until Caution: Slippery floor.
I grab the handrail, my hands sweaty.
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