Poetry

That hazy, faintly discernible glow,
already half erased,
lodged in the corners of the night 

You smiled, slumped in your chair.
I was reclining. We talked but
not much was said. It was the day

Once again the land was alone
with me. The hills were humped and low.

Over a tundra of red sand they arrive eager as stadium
fans, with laundry-like sacks and bags, separated into queues:

The UNHCR Somali driver speeds by a small herd
of white cattle prodded along by a desert farmer.
rust-colored dust in its wake clouds barbed-

They told you that their enemies surrounded
the women, the countless rapes fifteen miles
from the border, even on the outskirts around