The Phoenicians

Past the flood walls, on a small hill, neighbors flick cigarette butts in our overgrown yard. The push mower only pushes weeds, so we let them grow under the Chinese elm tree’s chameleon leaves – one side is fall, the other spring. We’re between two worlds. We’re always east of west and north of south. We’re in a direction of knees. Everyone’s falling lovelessly. I want to lay in the rocks, pattern myself after something real – hard as stone and thrown. Warm. Through the cracks a green sprout. I think of an olive tree and a long grove to wander through forever and maybe I’ll lose my shoes, my clothes, my hair. Maybe I’ll buck my body entirely.

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