Everything I know has a border.
The curtains over the door,
the hair on my arm,
There’s even a border between
my roommate and me
though it’s negotiable,
and punctured by nibs of love, and envy,
so our pitchers leak into each other.
Why do you recoil at their mention?
Why do you dissolve them
in milk, laughter and opaque things?
They are a way of beginning, a way of ending,
They are the chassis and can make you an ark
of toys and gaunt, thinking men.
Beginnings and endings are important.
Any storyteller will confirm that.
Whatever, man. I know dreams and poets
say that borders do nothing good:
that they make sheds of anger and orphans
and war where none need exist.
Maybe I’ve missed a sweeter truth,
But borders have been kind sometimes:
A way of putting off the lights
and breathing into a pillow;
Of reading Marx in my underwear
with the music stirring the night
into so many moths.