Do you know me well enough to know I love you?
The hanging summer (vines, tendrils, and flowers) is divided
into an infinite number of parts. We don’t know them
except as parts—stretching into a beautiful infinity.
I haven’t seen you very much, recently.
I will fit if it’s dimly lit, and there’s not too many parts.
I will go if you take it slow, and don’t break any hearts.
This poem, of course. But no. You cannot know.