No borders, no boundaries. - Yanni

We see it coming, this Sin Nombre
and all the Zayrahs we come to know
and the rest of them the jornaleros

you have seen yourself on street corners
in Torrance by the sea, the calm waters
that get into your own forsaken country

one you have left behind to come over here
leave behind what was there and see
what golden suns you can see

and see what bright stars you can see
and see what lovely moons you can see
in between this hide-and-seek with men

them who have guns on their holsters
and the power of voice commanding
you to lay low, hands on your deadened head

so that a ritual like this could commence
as it were, in raid as in all stories of surrender
where those who have come without the papers

those who have just come on board
those who have yet to prove their truth
that they can speak English by not sounding off

the words but eat 'em like junk food
consumed to the quick and swallowed
then think of the days ahead, full, fulfilling.

We go by the trajectory of the American Dream.
We go by the route of the train ride
from distant hills unknown to mountains unknown

and all the untold dangers of a peregrine
in cold nights as in dark days even when prayers
keep us company and the nascient angels

swoon overhead like drunken clouds
or flirting air making us see light as light
is supposed to be: the sparkle on water

where we cross to another fate
the sheen of dew on leaves we pass by
after the rain, after our final dying

to cross the border, the boundary
of who we are to follow clearly where
the sound of the American dream begins.

Hon, HI

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