The Inland Roads

At night, inland dirt under my fingernails, red
like distant volcanoes, the singing of constant winds.
The shop lit up at night, shelves painted red.

His voice sing-song, like he's chanting the price
of a hundred stocks, one after the other.
The limestone road an octave of noisy puddles.

Church lights in the low cloud, trees heavy
with mosquitoes, languid along the lingering road.
His gold chain the marriage of light and flesh.

∗

Night-time at the store, talking in low voices.
They collect their children, travel homewards,
scooters now plastered with red soil.

Singing and muscle. All that remains.
Guess at the planting of trees abrupt against the night,
all the known stars blanked out. Think, too,

of the red light inside and the weakness of flesh.
An augury of knives, and the rain constantly dripping.
Those travelling the back roads remain vigilant.