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a tale from the margin
by Ali Znaidi
I can’t read those tattoos because
they are inscribed on a cremated
bough of a eucalyptus tree:
an abattoir of blurry visions.

Sometimes the best thing about a tale
is that it doesn’t need to be clear.

This is not a distilled haiku.
This is a poem about cigarette butts,
This is a poem about the hazy smoke
of the invisible flâneurs.
May 2014
144