Abandon the fences, for they are only raw
excuses to refuse ownership
of sky beyond and earth below; the growing world
extending, embracing, dancing the seasons over the suburbs.

As if the seasons ended at your fence line.
As if death could be held off, birth refused.

Fences are delusional. This is me; that is you.
Haven’t you heard de Chardin? All you touch is you.
All I breathe is me. All we are extends forever.

Yet you’d have me believe in fences.