Through this movement.

I don’t have many memories
of staying in one place.
I carry images
of vistas through windows
of moving vehicles,
landscapes, seasons, and faces
sweeping or inching by.
Some places I remember well,
others I don’t.
Some countries I remember,
some I remember through stories my parents tell.
But, through this movement,
I was always with my thoughts.
They could race ahead,
or stir and churn into a paste in my skull,
or breathe through the tip of a pen
onto paper.
These would plug me into sedentary life:
thoughts in the shape of words.

Written 7.12.10.
On the Bus – Qarqan to Qarqlik, China.

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