The olive trees

wear blackbirds

 

like sunglasses.

Loose dogs piss on ivy

 

offering roots

a wet thread of hope.

 

On the back deck next door,

a father powders

 

the cracked bottom of his baby

and spits on the blossomless mums.

 

The pump to the well works

but the aquifer’s dry.

 

Stumped by my nation’s split,

tamping sparks amid conflagration,

 

I speak sparely,

unable to draw up words

 

from a reservoir of images

and remembrance.

 

Like wood, I dry

from the inside out.