Of all the many waves curling onward in the river, of all the green things
growing upward from the earth, I won’t say I know you, I won’t say

I miss you, I won’t say I I I at all in this poem. What space then
for the study of the shape of the boats, the howls of the dogs,

the nouns of the nouns of this populated world. The wind smelling 
of fish, (and you’re not in the sky,) the ellipses of ants, (and you’re not 

in the sand,) the lukewarm desolation of the woman across the room. 
Which is shadowed, uncensored, inherent to her bones. No one is here 

in the worship alone. Neither are you absent from these words. 
I don’t concur that it’s selfish to want my heartache to be heard.