At evening, at an airport, at the join

of three different national borders,

a moth along a lance of sun.

It isn’t insufficient light

prevents us seeing 

each other fully across

the streaked sphinx of the sky.

Something good and true never

lacks its defenders,

nor those who hope to destroy it,

but here, where world is open, now

through rings in ropes of snow,

don’t you go 

inventing separate yous.