The landscape is a route
from waiting to transformation green
and September golden fields
the route not determined
the route northwards
a train can only ride on its tracks
the tracks someone placed
the train only has that direction
onwards, onwards, onwards, stay on track
but when we get off the train
we can make moves
sideways and diagonally and rotate on the spot and peer
in all directions and the routes
lead home perhaps to something
that can one day become home
to the sister, cousin or uncle who constitutes a home
until then the body is home
the phone is home, the direction is home
the route is home, transit is home
I have closed the borders
between Greece and Balkan
entered loose agreements
between Europe and Turkey
agreements that don’t hold up legally
but are treated as law without verification
you issue instructions
and if this is illegal I will rename them memos
you wish for a breather
in which I can pretend
like the escape routes have vanished
overgrown unused
not deliberately blocked
Every time someone goes by
I hope it’s you
but it’s strangers, strangers, strangers
on routes of no concern to me
against the direction of motion I see everything which is over
finished chapters, abandoned homes
is a home still home
if you never see it again?
If it’s in ruins?
Is a bunk bed
A sleeping bag on the deck home?
How many
years does it take before you are home in a new city
generations before you are no longer a newcomer but an inhabitant?
How many times does it start over
yet another route, yet another direction
yet another waiting time
are we arriving?