Bulguksa

  It's a dream I revisit often, more these recent months. I am with strangers in a white minivan, winding its way through the rice-paddy green of a back road in South Korea. The road begins to ascend, and then we are in a low, undulating deciduous forest of birch and alder. We arrive somewhere …

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monsoon

what am i going to write about this far-flung evening not so quiet not so normal not so anything seated alone on a south-facing porch rain dripping off every surface patter of droplets chirp of frogs everything is damp three hundred twenty tree species thrive in the high western ghats which one's in shadow which …

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a russian train, and peter the great

Around Moscow, the country rolls gently up from the rivers winding in silvery loops across the pleasant landscape. Small lakes and patches of woods are sprinkled among the meadowlands. Here and there, a village appears, topped by the onion dome of its church. –Peter the Great: His Life and World, Robert K. Massie midafternoon, and …

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poem from the train to bukhara

dusty, dry, golden the fan mountains silhouette a line of white chevys, blue soviet trucks a level crossing then dushanbe, and afghanistan after. vestiges of trade routes that criss-crossed this land like vines creeping up trellises, along shanty warehouses, next to a dwindling river carving a ribbon of jade through the desert. in some other universe there is a caravan packing …

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