TERMINAL POEMS

The Border

33 / 40 · VI. The Eye

The queue
is not a queue
but a sieve.

Passports open
to a lens
that does not read
the name
but the geometry –

the distance
between your eyes,
the angle
of your jaw,
the ratio
of nose to mouth
to threat.

Behind the glass,
a score appears.

The officer
does not know
what it means.

He waves you through
or does not.

The machine
has already decided.

He is the hand
it uses
to point.

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