Dungarees, you said. Not denim, not jeans. Like something
         worn to be worn through deserved
                    more syllables, a longer run
over the tongue, through the lips. And because a greeting
          is always the start of something ending, you
                    said hell instead of hello. Promised
a fall that could never be expressed by hi.
         And that I do not know
                    how to hear you now means I can’t
ask how you say longing or distance or absence
         because they all cross wrong my teeth, they all
                    fail hard to mean this—which is too
                              long and could never reach.