Endlessly, the trees behave.
Each branch and twig
might draw the line between
crisp breath and the mist.
Guards stand and stamp
at this point where worlds
collapse into a border.
Beneath ghosting
frontier architecture,
passports are handed over.
We each have our case,
a claim to an identity,
which someone somewhere
in ministry or embassy
will accept, will condone.
Outside the windows
of this sweaty minibus,
a forest occurs, declining
into atmospheric effects,
a foggy weekday morning –
and us, we can’t see the wood
for the proverbial trees.
