I
Here’s the coil of razor wire
we crawled beneath
thinking ourselves invisible
even in the clothes
we wear for tradition’s sake: black
in green landscapes, and many
bright colors in gray cities.
II
Among faces massed
on the platform between
arrivals and departures
you might find us, sharing
a tragic story with our fellow refugees
who have learned to ignore
those who think it invalid
only because it has been repeated
a million times.
III
Some men have shirts
in the colors of the teams
from Barcelona, London, or Munich
they have long wanted
to see play live. From the air
we resemble a crowd waiting
to enter a stadium
for a soccer game
and none of us
has a ticket.
IV
We are more than we know
the number for,
yet people watching
as we file ashore
count every one.
All the way along this road
and farther than you see
we are moving with the others
whose homes have become
a dust so fine
no one with a house to live in
could imagine it,
even if they tried.
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