I tell my students, “Words
are an imperfect thing, our best
way to transmute our exact thought.”

I say, “If I could connect us–me and you–
it would still not bridge us. Imagine
a micro-USB, our two brains almost
together, and yet we’re each distinct, alone.”

But I can say, bird’s wing or mother’s hand
and you can feel its shudder towards air
or her cooling touch. I can explain distance
in numbers, or in the image of a door closed,
or of being surrounded by walls or woods. 

If I could tell you how I feel in this moment’s end,
I’d say, outside, gray, the clouds brood–gloaming
because I’ve never been one for an ending,
no matter how temporary. If it’s something 
that’s brought me a modicum of life,
I’d rather say, “Please, go on.”