The Refugee
At the northern border wait the sitting rooms,
bowls of candy, and the hooks, the knives.
Light holds you
for the interrogation. Why
you've come? Your name
and work?
Afterwords you're encouraged
to visit the temple,
see the altar, and take
a few photographs.
Nests lie in the eaves above.
A mother bird cries in what must be
a ritual in these parts
as if she tires of waking
to the smell of burning sticks.
You kneel
but only to get a better angle
on her speckled beak.
Meanwhile behind you
arrives another black van.
Meanwhile the sky
hurries soundlessly into exile.