Crossing the street without
hands I collect the film of life
from a passing motorcyclist
and its story of
images is dark and incomplete.
Before me buildings of immense
secrets and bodies in forests and
water. In a room of government
officials I pretend to be a cleaner
with my ear against a symbolic wall.
Hurrying to Brussels for debt crisis
talks I blow up a plane and sell to
the soul of one or two dead countries.
Tortured in Athens for impersonating
a famous spy
I escape to a desert of light, where the
secrets I possess seem like gaunt spirits
and the well of my betrayal is deep
but something I am not trained to see.