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Okhotsk
I have seen Russia
several hundred times
from my window.
On an ancient ship that rocks
swiftly against the breaking
of vehement waves.
In a past life where I can
perfectly conjugate French verbs
"Pour aimer est de mourir"
Until daybreak crashes against
my window panes and the alarm
screams.
I emerge from my quilted cocoon
unsteady,
unready.
I look out my window
expecting to see Okhotsk
glittering and teasing in the distance.
