Category: Traveling
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Wake
When I look out over the empty lake at dusk, and see the overturned sailboats lining the shore, and the day feels full and tired,
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Om Shanti
In every town the same building sits on usually a quiet street, usually single storied (or else a dark and creaky second story), painted on the outside and in with bright colors that would not fit any other building, rusty bathroom faucet, tidy stack of blankets, box of Kleenex, poor ventilation, welcoming the stranger, sore…
Poems from in between 