Galle, Sri Lanka

Wire-framed, surefoots ready the rods at Galle

With sun-beaten smirks at the crowds who form

Closer to colonial corners

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They won’t know the ruddy hue

of callous skin on pulped ground

Nor the tuktuks late-night, hill-start

oscillating against the muggy Sun

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Wizened, worldish, fishermen

Stare instead at the sea.

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