Côte d'Ivoire


once he went to america where the airports are nondescript,

consistent hubs of a consciousness traversing, the breath-beating

blood in travel, in leaving, returning, and when he took his hour waiting in the

terminal, he closed his eyes to the river of language eddying sharp

currents and bursts of sound until it smoothed itself once again and

he slept there waiting in one of the world's thousand nowhere


he does not remember much else about america

it was a long time ago.

this is home. he doesn't go outside anymore, not since the latest news front

positioned itself outside his doorway. firecracker wet-work of development,

the unconscious sneers of young boys carrying stolen soda cans down the

burning streets; this is all the detail he's ever needed, little window-view between

the boards, the heat finding its way inside, no barricade strong enough for season.


the french soldiers wait at the Abidjan airport.

they smoke cigarettes and someone sells them

wine- the officers blink it away, take paper cups

from the vendors and choke down the lukewarm


outside, night falls.

this could be anywhere.