PASSE-PORT
We pass the turnstile
into your country.
The computer spits you out --
You're no longer on its mind.
I always thought a country
was the way the trees unleave
in your head or the snow
falls on your childhood, thought it
part of the landscape you become.
The stories that sink roots into history
and repeat themselves like litanies:
the family,
bone-ladder you descended
from somewhere.
But you tell me a country
is really a door.
They can close it.
We pass the turnstile
into your country.
The computer spits you out --
You're no longer on its mind.
I always thought a country
was the way the trees unleave
in your head or the snow
falls on your childhood, thought it
part of the landscape you become.
The stories that sink roots into history
and repeat themselves like litanies:
the family,
bone-ladder you descended
from somewhere.
But you tell me a country
is really a door.
They can close it.