Translated by Khaled Mattawa An African summer at the beach, a summer of Oran. If my memory of greenery were to cloud up, I
Cloistered by power lines & steel frames driving I-15 south toward my Mar Vista loft. The scent of burnt weeds, scorched joshua trees seep
In the recycled paper bag in my hand I carry a flag of many stripes in a variety of colors with a few, small,