it’s as strange and sad to me as if you had said
There are no stars, because you’ve never
been out in the country at night. Never lain out
in predawn dark in a frozen roadside field
to see the Leonid showers.
are meaningless chemical blips,
not love songs in Morse code.
the easy comfort of reading together,
sharing a porch filled with morning sunlight.
you realize you’re sharing a thought
without even a glance.
radio interviews for the pleasure
of hearing your own accent,
your own native dialect of metaphor,
spoken for just a few minutes.
barefoot through soft grass can’t exist
because you’ve never done it.
There are no fairy tales in Icelandic, because you don’t speak it.
in oak and elm and walnut boughs in August,
the heartbeat drone of cicadas.