Salty swathes of sea, white brightest white, hard to look at beaches, slowly swinging folds of cloth, lined brown faces sitting at cafes, that may or may not be called up by their wives and their kids and their God, and little explosions like firecrackers random, shouting down the telephone call, paying for the time with handfuls of plastic cards, and shoving notes into the hand of the shopkeeper, back home with a look in the eye, spinning cups of sweet tea, left as they run for cover from some police and men getting stopped at the sides of streets, the thick trail of petroleum in the air, the never ending dust clouds, the wide open sky, the stars falling out of its wide open mouth, breathtaking, getting into taxi…
