The day I turn my back to you
to speak, in order
to, in older words and think

I never told you apart,
we look in a line. Nearly
tied to words, half-living,

that with each turn change
by half. Like it is June
still the sun outside turns

the pale grass while
you hide from it.
All we scrawled at one

another’s features speaks
only for itself—dead’s last
earthy letter

echoes like the word. Hear
it out: we learned our first
tongue by listening

to what is said, what’s
not, and never start
to speak like that again.