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.