This is your passport I hold in my hand:
a hemisphere, half red ink, half blue–
as yet untorched by terror, but polluted

perhaps by the gaze of the future. For
example, the shadow of the parachute of
my desire, this rip-cord of your photo-

blink, your eyes translated into these
flashing sad idioms. Take this blank page
for the remainder, the last boring national

tattoos. Wave me through these invisible
brackets of lightning. Stars shatter on
the epaulets of all the uniforms, the hats

and coats of countries that no longer exist.
I wear your insignia, therefore I wear death’s
insignia. Which means that nothing can hurt me.

And with these wings and flames, I pledge
allegiance to nothing: I can go anywhere.