Dusk, dishes cleared, candles lit,
the last of the wine poured.
Outside the porch a bat flits
as sight comes unmoored
from talk that deepens
as if darkness thrives on
darkness we attempt to keep
below the surface of our daily lives.

So common a ritual, breaking
bread together. Who could believe
the need to turn away, forsaking
such communion, no reprieve
in sight. Masked, distanced,
flattened to images on screens
or disembodied voices, existence
that denies our hunger to be truly seen.

How hard it was to end the night, 
rise, meander toward the door, 
blinking in the artificial light,
the hugs good-bye, assured
we’d see each other soon
to savor food and human touch.
Now, bereft of company, the rooms 
hold deeper darkness, deeper hush.
                        

Who is guarding the border
of our sanity? 
What delusions lurk in the desert
beyond compassion? 
What wall can we build
impenetrable
opaque
to divide us from our own
migrating passions and fears?

How can we be cured
of our heedlessness?
Our greed?
What are we willing
to sacrifice?
What do we truly need?
                        

Drawn in ink or blood,
they unspool from history
to split mountains and valleys,
meander in rivers that twist 
and turn, dragging their banks 
to new configurations, adding to,
subtracting from, this dominion
or that. Invisible, except
when a fence or wall defines
them, ramparts that open
only through drawbridge or gate
guarded by sirens and guns.
Those you can step across
are silent. The same weeds grow
on either side. Perhaps a sign
announces some new territory,
but the soil does not change
its allegiance: clay or silt,
loam or dust. The name
of the tree that straddles
a border may change from one
language to another, but its roots
are anchored in the same earth
and draw up water that travels
without passport or visa.
Still, coastal nations cast their nets
three miles into the ocean’s 
tides and storms, and even the sky
is bound with invisible borders 
dividing yours from mine.