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.
