Wednesday, January 21, 2009

From a series I'm working on:

And from ANOTHER series I'm working on, Called Border Songs:

At the Gate

At the gate, we remove our shoes.
We take off our belts.  We give

short men our keys and our keys
are held in grimy red baskets.

We don't talk; we don't look
at each other. The room is filled

with the smell of diesel fuel
and nervous sweat.  The boat
engine rumbles in the distance.
It sounds as if it is arriving; as if

it is leaving. The floor shudders
with the force of it. We hear

splashing, but we cannot see
the water.

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