High above, the pages of the sky rustle.
Down below a customs officer wants your fingerprint
the stamp of your family tree
on your tourist visa application.
The yellow Balkan moon shines across my face.
I forgot to turn it off as we flew over the ocean.
The family next to me has more experience.
They hide their sad pentatonic up their sleeve
presenting the official at the counter
with a healthy dose of Californian smiles.
Behind the barricade, cheerful old people
with candy-floss haircuts
extend their arms to take me to heaven.