It couldn't bother me to wait in neon-lit rooms
with aliens waiting for alien registration
a mini-Babylon of non-compulsory silence
I could just traverse this opacity, for it's all already been seen
They could disappear
and the fade white lights could amalgam with fade white grounds
and everything fades with the murmurs of the little policemen
murmuring exotic passport names
I am barely desensitized, but it is the habit
We lose the habit of being home,
the courage of abandon
and the possibility of irrational joy
Still I can see all these aliens leave one after the other
and in the gaps between the empty blue chairs
see valleys I can wander in
For in the valleys of your hands lies my true country
and in the strata of your skin
lies my real home
