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5 Quiet Fountain I love the guest house on Nguyen Du. I slept inside the linen net, my windows open wide to let the spirits in who come to visit from the lake. I’ve seen them in a chorus, their white shapes in the garden where the lotus blossom has to be content to swirl in just one place, the fishpond crowded, the quiet fountain only barely there. I share my room with geckos on the wall who chirp their discontent— the lack of bugs, my modern pesticides— and with a rat who visits when I shower; he cleans himself beside me on the floor, and soon, I wash like him, beyond the gaze that knows there’s room for both of us to live. ...

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