It's hard to write for you. I'd rather read

It's hard to write for you. I'd rather read
the water of the tub, or fill you in
on yesterday's discussion. I don't know
grammar the way you do, but if I sang

instead of thought—the ripples of the pool
are spreading out. They had a story where
the self was unapproachable, the real
was incommunicable. The way you leave

the book open on the porch, how you leave
the room were in, move in a language of
soft sighs and laughs. The way you left me once

and for all was a thing beyond telling.
Yet, it's still told in every whirling age
and every era in a million modes.