John Huey- Flight

Flight I have been rowed across the Volga and seen the sun breach the waters. Gone in the mist in Delhi late at night, the translucent  tarps glistening over the masses living in the rain, they, briefly encountered through the beads of moisture, alive on the car window as the incandescence of wealth passed over them. Lounged in the market in Argentina where Borges walked  on a Sunday, the beasts and demons twitching. Rome in summer, Stockholm in the snow, Jakarta in league ...

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