Song of the Andoumboulou: 304

By | 1 May 2021

( surge)

The birds being always with us leaned in. They
were back, a refrain, the aboutness of it all or of
part of it, never not there since given beaks. We
out on exponentiality’s damage, a virus the
would-be monarch’s crown, the erstwhile kingdom
come back on by it, nescience maskless and afoot…
birds leaned in and sang with shrill Moroccan voices,
an alpine strop sharpening knives. They concocted
a Meknes more sonorous than real, the real a mere bone
itself, their Malhun another real… We had gone to
Meknes and been disappointed it wasn’t its music,
music always an elsewhere, we were finding, wher-
ever we went. We bore Nub everywhere we went, so
fectious Europe turned us away, the light rain falling
well a re-

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