Green awnings have rusted.
Time unstill you are unstill
walking on a street stilled.
Your mind holds the no longer market.
You want to show me the market.
You have crawled prison floors.
Your son has done the same.
You are the same the ceaselessness.
Your mother served green olives after you
were released but what is release?
You see barbed wire.
Are cut by it in sleep.
Ghosts slide from slits.
Soldiers in green uniforms walk
about the city patrol it before
eating green olives at home.
They ask for your papers.
There is danger in their asking in their
surrounding their makeshift grove in being yourself.
At home you offer me the center leaves
of lettuce a different green tender green.
In the past we rested
among saddled horses. Buildings
were faint sand saturated air.
We will not leave will not enter sea sink.
Seaweed as sea groves the sea
will not hold this green.
Art by Evie Lovett
Myronn Hardy is the author of four previous books of poems. His book, RADIOACTIVE STARLINGS, was published in the Fall of 2017 by Princeton University Press. He divides his time between Morocco and New York City.