I met a person on a train once
with a face
stamped "Borders Closed".

A sign
"Trespassers will be prosecuted"
hung outside the gate in
letters mounted on a steel placard.

I walked by its hard unscaleable fences,
scattering pieces of careful conversation
amidst pockets of dry brittle earth,
remnants of harvests past,
smothered now into the ground
without the promise of rain.