The roots of everyday things are sunk deep.
And if we were to disappear, never to return,
Would we not feel them pulling us

Back to this house where we first broke ground?
It would be unavoidable, the hands would know
By the cold light of morning

To avoid the other's choice of toiletries even before
The eyes could see. And would I not feel a sense
Of having made it into that elusive camp -

That solidarity of lovers on the brink of
Breaking a silver lining -
With every glance at our future

Laid out in the sidelong orientation of our
Furniture, the almost neglected bamboo,
And the silent coffeemaker?

For certain, these roots are written deep,
Dried and blotted time and again
On the palimpsest of our collective past.

Only this time, for the first time,
I am reading it as the history of two
Nations separated by a border that invites

Crossing,
Where trespassers are not shot on sight -
Rather they unwittingly lead pursuers
To secrets of the highest order.