Is изход.
Outside the National Theatre building again,
I’m doing my best to explain
how such things happen – that thought
which turned into a threat
and missed the point.
Not money, but my passport
burns a hole in my pocket.
It’s not at home here
and neither will I be
when we place ours over
these virtual readers
and it’s confirmed
that I belong to the database.
I’m thinking here, perhaps,
of walking back
to the apartment I let myself into –
the known walk to the lift,
the counted steps to the door,
the intimate geography
of where I'm living now
and the vase on the table
that holds these actual flowers.
Image: Marina Shiderova; text: Tom Phillips
