Nothing you ask me,
how often have we sat late
across that table?
gets the true reply.
My words come out flip,
hard-edged, boxed-up,
enameled. Later I replay them,
worry them back and forth
on a golden chain around my throat.
We can’t sit here all night.
And retell the past as I might,
morning only throws a different slant
of light on the same still life.
Do you have a different kind
of dictionary, one with words
you might arrange
into the right question?

-- Carol Hamilton