In the passport office there is a city
of tall white towers above blue water;
a green forest hugging the outskirts.
A city in a poster above a desk
where requests to cross borders
are granted or denied,
and a press of people,
hundreds of people,
none of whom are visible in the white city.

There is no place among the clean towers
for this swarm of bodies
that reek of charcoal;
the forest would not last a day.
And the water
could never cleanse their shit
never satisfy their thirst.

The pure city recedes into the poster
and millions press forward
toward white towers,
green forests,
blue waters,
vanishing hope.