M.M. Batavia

On the bus I had two blood clots up my nose —

I don’t mean the direct flight wasn’t convenient —

I blew them out to breathe. I’m light headed and find myself

Musing over how inspiring hitchhiking sounds.


The flight was not bad, not a bad means —

I slept through half of it — I just feel sad. We passed

Forests, cities, cemeteries, people, peoples,

Greenland, and I barely noticed.


In Jaffa’s shuk I found

Gold Aladdin pants to try on, and lost myself

In alleys on route anywhere. You’ll never catch me

Napping on the bus, even through the tunnel, up to Jerusalem.


I caught a post-travel fever — kept my blood loosening.

My nose would say, Glad you forced out

The clots and didn’t miss the sulphurous springs,

Dead Sea oils, gas stations, exhaust.


Hold onto Negev dust as it scatters

From under your fingernails,

And recycle the plane tickets

So you don’t tell yourself you’ve been places.


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