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THE
ORIENT
The
old man who sold hats,
with
a thousand lines per square inch
connecting
the vast regions of his face,
might
have come, we used to think,
from
another planet, or at least
from
another time on Earth.
First
of all, we couldn't understand his words,
although
people said he spoke our language.
It
was a trick, like doubletalk,
nodding
and grinning, two sets of eyes,
one
set focused on something far away
that
none of us could ever hope to see.
He
seemed to be surrounded by a nimbus,
a
color never seen in comic books,
and
in the trail of the glow a sound
like
music gently pursued him.
Each
of his teeth was a tiny statue,
one
made of gold, all the rest ivory.
During
the year of the autumn flood
the
old man disappeared, swallowed,
someone
said, by a giant carp.
The
little stand on Main Street
where
he sold his hats was left alone,
shrinelike
in its emptiness;
and
as people passed they often stopped
to
look and even, unaware, to slightly bow.
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