You slipped across the border once and met
his eyes, smuggled his secrets up your coast
without a visa, because they’d never let
a foreigner bypass the customs post.
But you could only be so unperturbed
under the blinding guidance of the stars.
By day, the commercial thoroughfares are curbed
with civil fortresses like concrete scars.
You make pedestrian attempts at trade
and leave with only euro cents of truth,
a tariff for every question you evade
in faded binders in the customs booth.
Enough. Either be a Schengen zone
or stamp each other’s passports, and be alone.