Joshua Fought

,

.

Not citizens or trees, we’re crowded

beyond the olive grove

with its fine silver leaves

&

I gesture over the sound bomb

between us to introduce myself, offer

a handkerchief, a phone number

&

on the ridge above us, boys

lean close like cousins, percussive

in the shift from foot to foot

&

as it would have done with us

or without us, the Caterpillar comes, the sharp

yellow mouth, an elbowing

aside, and all the olive roots

give up their dirt and at least

we were here to see it

&

over the fallen, the muscles

of the face open

involuntarily, toward

some sun, in a fierce botany of refusal.