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My Landscape Is Not Land
They're lurking at each stop：a sea of expatriate
Americans who will reveal their ignorance with zeal.
They natter at me in their unbroken English,
then indulge in outdoor drinking sprees 'just for the novelty.'
Stars in this tourist sky
bleached out by city lights again.
Coins weigh down my pockets with their elusive value,
and it makes me to spend them all on more alcohol.
Until I can barely stand. Until my landscape is not land.
Just the sounds of passing things. Just remembering...
Stars in the swollen sky
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reach out for you tonight, again.
These countries passing like a film unspooled by hand,
coloured by your absence,
I... suddenly I'm learning how
something that makes a constant sound
becomes a default silence then,
as it repeats again and again and again.
Stars in another sky
shine for your distant eyes, again.
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