Xinjiang. The sun never burns here, he says. Days so bright, so long, we never find the night moon. We walk hot noon slopes, hear our breath, hear our breath. Then we hear a river, find pink flowers and willow. Oasis as fresh as its word.
Photo: A friend's toes on cracked earth, Xinjiang, June 2010
Text: From a prose poem (in progress) called 'How Bright We Are'
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