Of an ongoing crisis: Ethnographic poems

My homeland is a low cost flight; it lives by sapping off shorelines like goats grazing on salt in postcard anthologies.It is being dragged along by a ferry on loan; all sorts of hoists lift its parts, and snipers in the corners cover the procession.I make one-shot films of it; I recognize it from its bond-like format.A sound investment, which I accredit androgynously in the script.I wear vintage glasses so that it might be mirrored as if it were talking to me, and I treat it to mastic liqueur I had stolen for her.It lights up a Papastratos and looks, once again through my glasses, my short film of a homeland, laden with awards at festivals abroad.