There is recognition in these worn-out brick walls
hung over with bougainvillea in cerise and dusty green
and thick black bundles of low-slung power lines
but we startle turn step aside for the next tooting scooter
to thread through the constricted lane past high iron gates
a sleeping dog and crates of empty Pepsi bottles.
For we have lived here before, the language now
emerging from hibernation when poked with sticks
of need, words that provoke smiles and wonder
and engagement warm as the winter sun
as we order cups of sweet milky chia and sit on dusty
plastic chairs to watch a thread of Kathmandu weave by.
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