A hundred million migrants roam the planet.
They kick up a soft dust, from space they appear
To be weather, a little storm the wind faithfully carries.
When it rains they lift their bowls to the sky.
They sleep with a rock under their heads.
At dawn they are the first to break the photographic stillness.
They have lost all sense of distance. A sort of arrivallate,
Under darkening skies, the smell of miles on your clothes
A sort of arrival is needed to say how far you've traveled.
The crunch of gravel in the neighbor's driveway.
He will join the road with those other sedentary dreamers,
The unnumbered who've found a home just to leave it.
There is no good reason why night after night
I sleep here with you.
Only that the roof over our heads has not yet fallen.