Meditation
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If I were face-up in the MRI machine, I’d see the cherry blossoms affixed to the ceiling. / But I’m face-down. / My arms are extended above my head. / A crane, I read this morning, can stay aloft for up to ten hours. / It barely needs to flap its wings.

When I arrive in the lobby of Kalimpong’s famed Himalayan Hotel, I move around clumsily and with caution. I’m wary of touching objects left behind by long-gone visitors, and the pop-up ghosts of soldiers, businessmen, and mountaineers startle me.

A pioneer of New York’s downtown scene in the ’60s and ’70s recalls how he found his vocation as a poet.
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