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We pass the turnstileinto your country.The computer spits you out --You're no longer on its mind.

I always thought a countrywas the way the trees unleavein your head or the snowfalls on your childhood, thought itpart of the landscape you become.The stories that sink roots into historyand repeat themselves like litanies:the family,bone-ladder you descendedfrom somewhere.

But you tell me a countryis really a door.They can close it.

© Sullivan Rosemary