The tightness and the nilness round that space

　　when the car stops in the road, the troops inspect

　　its make and number and, as one bends his face

　　towards your window, you catch sight of more

　　on a hill beyond, eyeing with intent

　　down cradled guns that hold you under cover

　　and everything is pure interrogation

　　until a rifle motions and you move

　　with guarded unconcerned acceleration--

　　a little emptier, a little spent

　　as always by that quiver in the self,

　　subjugated, yes, and obedient.

　　So you drive on to the frontier of writing

　　where it happens again. The guns on tripods;

　　the sergeant with his on-off mike repeating

　　data about you, waiting for the squawk

　　of clearance; the marksman training down

　　out of the sun upon you like a hawk.

　　And suddenly you're through, arraigned yet freed,

　　as if you'd passed from behind a waterfall

　　on the black current of a tarmac road

　　past armor-plated vehicles, out between

　　the posted soldiers flowing and receding

　　like tree shadows into the polished windscreen.