It is a room just off to the side of our lives
newly emptied. Our small clutter spills
across polished surfaces as we fill up the vacancy.
Halt of a lift, voices that come through walls like a cloud,
no-one lives here. It is a room with no country.
Our half-emptied bags wearing yesterday’s flight tags,
the room makes loud its limitation yet
holds out hours and gives us passport. Space.

All around are towers, floors of rooms, window
squares of light. The city sounds, loading, unloading.
We draw the curtains on a night that is wide as the Atlantic.