by Gregory Orr
A black biplane crashes through the window
of the luncheonette. The pilot climbs down，
removing his leather hood.
He hands me my grandmother's jade ring.
No， it is two robin's eggs and
a telephone number： yours.
A black biplane crashes through the window
of the luncheonette. The pilot climbs down，
removing his leather hood.
He hands me my grandmother's jade ring.
No， it is two robin's eggs and
a telephone number： yours.
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