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Trivandrum

At dusk the palm
is a streak of dye,

a suggestion against a sky
smacked blue with crows.

A girl, colonial
in a white pinafore,

strings garlands
of clothes on the line.

The lake rests with
its back to the dam,

in the shallows a man
curves water over a cow,

smiles at me—

a white woman
draped on the rocks;

a predictable wonder,
a chargeable item.