Image result for man reading the newspaper in painting

The attempt to own the things we see

Is impossible. It was easier to own me.

All you had to do was fall in love—and be

Everything that I might call my poetry.

Now I register everything you do,

Even faintly, by a rumor, but it’s you; it’s you:

In things I read about—we no longer talk,

In things I remember—we no longer walk

Side by side; in things—is that really you,

Doing, I hear, what I know you never used to do?

You are changing for the better, you

Own me. It’s nearly nothing. But you do.



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