Something there is that doesn’t love a wall,
He said, but something there is that craves one, too,
That sends a human groundswell, spills the water
Left for nomads in the sun. Malicious elves, you say,
But that’s not it exactly, more like the kind of man
Who’d leave a bag of rattlesnakes on the front step
To keep anyone from coming in,
Or train coyotes how to circle on command.
Oh, I think he knows what he is walling in and walling out,
The old stone savage that he is, the apples
And the pine cones have nothing to do with it,
Just another form of taking for yourself
That which has been taken time and time again.