He was writing
on the precision of individual language.
How words are not universal,
and are really insurmountable gaps
between two bodies.

Summer being, to him,
the turbid silt of the lake,
the rosemary scent of perch
being fried in butter.

Summer being, to her,
brine, pizza grease on her hands,
the covetous din and neon lights
reflected in the ocean.

Outside his screen window,
opened so a minor breeze
comes and goes, red movement
of a bird in the throes of song.

He is suddenly aware
of the voices next door, the traffic
churning on the street, the
morning transactions between
light and the slowly wilting trees

And he says to himself,
to re-enter silence,
ah, Rachel.

(originally pleasure,
then loss, now some
melancholy refinement
of both)

He writes: what of names?