The market ground
drying out under surface dew
resists my tent pegs.
Bouncing and laughing
in their mothers’ arms,
two babies hold my gaze.
The skirt seller
suddenly, casually,
tells me her whole life story.
I bring home
two bottles of red
captive, held by the necks.
Going through old poems, I came across these jottings which, though not recent, seem to belong among the small stones. (The previous post is also a rescued and reworked fragment of an older draft.)
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