green

Interlocked, on the Tahrir junction, now, garden , the smell of linen, detergent, and behind the ears

of what anyone might call love; is not enough to take me, this time, through the sleepless city, back to your ship of giant ants, and warmth, and comfort, a three storey desert house, of faded fabric, junk yard, balconies galore, and rooftop watching.

shabby matresses, and that turkish coffee morning; spilling over into the dawn of a new day slept through, a big sleep and never let go - of two docile bodies, clinging on like broken babies, in a city of bodies everywhere. Revolution? I don't want to leave - from this patch of grass, on the Tahrir junction garden; dressed and unable to touch properly, in safety, we are being watched.

paralized on a patch of grass, grown on top of old terror, new seeds planted - not another land, just another layer, I don't want to go.

Hijabis night bathing in blood, on this green spot of evolution.

Have a cup of tea koshari, the roots are a pain in my side, but, I just don't want to move






hale a taxi
but don't you go.
For here, in this shakey place
storeys high city,
you were my only home