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Hotel room view

Across the grey green bay
with its rusted industrials,
Mt Rishiri dominates.

 

Dark pines ooze

between the grip

of jagged spurs.

 

Snow

and ancient ice.

 

No powerlines, no ski lifts,

the road around the bay 

marks the only human presence.

 

I stand at the window drinking ocha,

swept up in this fact

-this is far from Nagoya.

 

This is very,very far

from Nagoya.

 

Go to Tim Sinclair's profile to read more poems

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