Either nothing happens or the landscape happens.

Passports record experience

though not what has been learned from it.

A conductor examines your ticket with opprobrium.

That must have been something, not nothing.

A busker extracts strange coins

of limited value, limited, that is, in understanding,

surely he prefers applause.

A memory could well be a dream.

In another language a woman tells you her

husband has died. Here are his shoes. Try them on.

Your knees hold up.

There will be pigeons.

Someone famous was born in this bed.

A dead body lies in a casket, uncorrupted,

look, children, at his golden hands.

Every meal will challenge your predispositions.

You make wild comparisons;

the light, for instance, the sky.

Those toilets, you’ll never forget them.

The look on a beggar’s face,

not so different from home.

The landscape has already happened.

Throw money.