The borders are open,

the borders are closed.

I stood in a long line of suitcases

in the Hall of Tears. Each

they inspected in leisurely detail,

quartering the face, solemn.

Sullen. Open please. I recall

a pair of blue women’s underpants

held to the grubby satin of the neon,

and the paperwork, the paperwork, I thought

this time they will empty out

the entire suitcase of my heart

when Bang went the rubber stamp,

and Klik the Ausgang. Go now they said.

Into the gold light. Into the birdsong of the dollar,

into the constellation of the milkshake.

Go be the little boy that lives in the lane,

this is what you get for your sack of apples.

Still he was there, my father,

at the stair’s end these twenty years,

back from the shadow country saying again I told you so

I told you so.

*

The salt in the shaker,

pepper in the pot, everything

in its place here at the Terminal Café:

eggs on the skillet, coffee in the cup.

Outside the river traffic on the river,

the sky as the sky is, blue if you will.

I can stroll in the Italian Gardens,

I can relax in the Sicilian Colonnade.

Here in the city I’m at home.

This is what I get for all my apples.

There’s a bar I go to.

There’s a woman I see.

There’s a bridge where I watch

dusk after dusk the downgoing sun

lash the water to fire, and go home

content in the dark and recall nothing.

*

Years go by

Father I say. Dad? You again?

I take your arm, your elbow,

I turn you around in the dark and I say

go back now, you’re sleep walking again,

you’re talking out loud again, talking in tongues

and your dream is disturbing my dream.

And none of this is any of your apples,

and even now as the centuries begin to happen

I can say: go away, you and all your violence.

Shush, now, old man.

Time to go back to your seat in the one-and-nines,

to your black bench on the Esplanade,

your name and your dates on a metal plate, back

to your own deckchair on the pier, your very own

kitchen chair tipped back on the red kitchen tiles

and you asleep, your feet up on the brass fender

and the fire banked, your cheek cocked

to the radio set, this is the 9 o’clock news Dad.

It’s time. It’s long past it.

Time to go back up the long pale corridor

there’s no coming back from.