The diggers have been gone less than a year. In the grown-over patches on the slope of Mpama South, emptied anchovy tins rust in the dirt beside strips of tarp, thick plastic jugs, and waxy cartons of mango juice squeezed flat at the waist...
It wasn’t so much that we burnt tires, releasing a toxic stew of nasties,or that each Eleventh Night, as a spat crescendoed, some fella got battered
Our love it lives at 6.3 degrees.I stooped to measure it inside a dream.A meager distance. Not the moon in apogee.
