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.