the late of the night; now, I am
a mile next to you, hard floor the
border between our nations; fences,
lining, walls, barriers, blockades. Distance,
fabricated from smoke; and you put it
in my hands. Golden orb of memory,
longing; and you tell me what it is.
Nostalgia, grace. For the future, yes?

I cup it. You turn, return, burn.
I drop it.
I know it does not belong to me.