or lost in books where I would travel

to another; where the only breeze

without luggage from one page
without luggage from one page
to another; where the only breeze
to another; where the only breeze
was the rustle of pages turning,
was the rustle of pages turning,
and lives rose and set
and lives rose and set
in the violent colors of suns. —Linda Pastan
in the violent colors of suns.
—Linda Pastan

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