eucalyptus leaves for the cooking
fires of Addis, and in the not-yet light, slumps
and dies. Even so, he’s whipped by
an Oromo, whose wife has just
stillborn their eighth child.
Rise with me now, from the dust
on the road to see herds and
huts and then one house, where, safe
behind walls set with broken glass, a ferengi
yawns and longs for his thesis on Yeats.
At night the stars hang closer than
his ceiling at home. They do it
With altitudes, he says, and forgets.
But eucalyptus ghosts will
waft along his road, riding death
tanks past the donkey.
— Benjamin H. Thomas (Addis 62–64)