The mystery is how all this  fecund matter is contained
In closed wood-cut faces, in their free-wheeling shells
With free views from inside, fiercely bent upon removal
Of  borders,their faint outlines firmly to be destroyed
As the faces blithely join spaces of their feral nothings
In fatal dances attacking filled spaces and their verses. 

Men have their borders , their loves violating free space
Other spaces , as in their foolish wars that would kill,
The wars that would  breed literature, music and religion
Science and society and all other transnational endeavors,
Their intemperate loves for women, their children pointing
Stubby primal fingers at their grown up love and nonsense.
They draw borders like hanging balconies for street views
With clutched bellies,their insides itching to break space
And remove borders and destroy their ugly wood-cut faces.

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