a country you carry in your pocket <br />airport to airport, a country <br />that exists for you in a remembered <br />fragrance, an expired stamp, now the seal <br />of blood embossed upon someone's <br />sunstruck pavement. Who owns <br />this property? Who owns the right <br />to no way out but a busted window <br />a hundred flights up? Who owns the key <br />to Heaven's Gate? Did it open? <br />I open the newspaper, my computer, <br />an account, and need to account for all <br />the terror in the world, in crossing <br />the street with my child this morning, <br />our Indian heads and Palestinian shrouds. <br />With what do we pay? For what <br />attention? I want to draw its shape
