xxxxxiii.

Every man is not a world, but a country

bordered and limned in its own way

and if borders are artificial, one should attend

to the piece of nature that posits

the construction of walls, and what waits

for brick to rise in order to grow

In the tariffs, and the agreements

in the negotiations into the night

we come to map the shape of the word

in transfers—I offload most of my deeds

and my misdeeds into the informal sector, but

you will know my love for you

by the commerce between us

--when you find goods of foreign origin

unexpectedly within your borders

a hint of the desert, and the brush of the sea

what I hear when the bushes rattle

and the shape of cliffs rising

above the houses and below the beltway

I am positioned to become

a small trading power, and what I carry

must be of high-value to justify the journey

across the wasteland, but

find the traces of my affection

among the bulk of the marketplace

in some shadowed stall
by the alley, the lanterns will
confuse you
my teeth, reflect the corner of
a false constellation.

xxxxxii.

As things fell, at different rates

               we clattered down slantwise

and scattered,

                a quiet trickle of refugees

                rolling into the corners

it was never announced

                   and never expected,

that we rose downwards

it seems that time has parted like paper

hung on wood, 

it seems that we pass into a

different stage,

              the encampments of the well-intentioned

              and the ambitious,

lining the streets, behind stucco walls

you must carry a sturdy container with you

there is sufficient water,

             

            all of them quietly mourning

for their homes--but the canvas of
expectation, snaps against the poles
and the unmoored edges fly. 

              

xxxxxi.

I heard your name today
--no the other one
in a chord,
in static, the edge of
the air.