The tightness and the nilness round that space br when the car stops in the road, the troops inspect br its make and number and, as one bends his face br br towards your window, you catch sight of more br on a hill beyond, eyeing with intent br down cradled guns that hold you under cover br br and everything is pure interrogation br until a rifle motions and you move br with guarded unconcerned acceleration— br br a little emptier, a little spent br as always by that quiver in the self, br subjugated, yes, and obedient. br br So you drive on to the frontier of writing br where it happens again. The guns on tripods; br the sergeant with his on-off mike repeating br br data about you, waiting for the squawk br of clearance; the marksman training down br out of the sun upon you like a hawk. br br And suddenly you're through, arraigned yet freed, br as if you'd passed from behind a waterfall br on the black current of a tarmac road br br past armor-plated vehicles, out between br the posted soldiers flowing and receding br like tree shadows into the polished windscreen.