Somewhere in Southern Europe
Somewhere in Southern Europe the pink is more pink, and a man weeds his garden rows in hot sun while wearing no shirt, but still socks. Somewhere in Southern Europe, in the heat of iron-rich red soil, there are old dogs tied up outside, flea-ridden and watching chickens, watching goats, dreaming of unchained melodies.
There are stacks of salted fish piled high in supermarkets smelling like an ocean gone wrong. There are fruits you haven’t held in your hands in over half a decade, and the Eucalyptus trees number hundreds of thousands and there are figs all around at mostly all times—though unripe. Somewhere in Southern Europe there are slender white egrets accompanying the cattle as they stand listlessly in parched fields. A single pair of underwear hung out on a washing line, perfectly straight, with two pegs. Crickets too large for the palm of a hand, louder than your own thoughts in the evenings, so perhaps this is why the brain feels emptier.
