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.
1 May 2015