I know it's only a trick—
your mouth
does not actually talk,
your ears are not hearing this,
your eyes do not see.
After years,
your face still looks
the same to me,
though I could swear
I am so much older
even than I am at this moment—
old enough, at least to comprehend
the parts of us
that still interact
are far from the obvious suspects;
just like the organs responsible
for the wood thrush's loneliest singing
are themselves perfectly silent,
and the mechanisms by which
a whole universe longs
to linger on and listen,
though very simple,
could be invisible—or else
very cleverly hidden.
