I have a tendency to pick
at edges, watch them shimmer,
watch them blur, watch them
point inwards, like the edge
of this page; fall off the edge
of a building you might land
at the edge of one country
and the beginning of another:
this is a cut,
or a path, depending
on your point of view;
watch it shimmer, watch it
blur, count who
comes in and out at gun
point; watch it take, watch it
burn its mark like a scar
you’ve tried to fade–
searching for the beginning
deep in a flesh marred
by checkpoints.