The acacia trees look so confused.
And this is yet another bus ride I promise
to write about; I promise
to burn in my memory; I promise
to pray over. But I will forget.
I want to paint the acacia trees
with dry brushes on wet paper.
I want to free their stunted branches.
I want to throw my hands over their branches,
swing my body back and forth.
Oh acacias, I am sorry
for gazing at you with rushed and tired eyes.