words evaporate like water in a dish
leaving you with a sense of something meant,
but not the memory of what was said,
or how, or when.
Things stay as they are (call them facts)
even with the names you learn to give them;
poems (you tell yourself) are so many ways
of naming things you’ve seen
once and may not see again,
except for tricks of remembering;
for words forget themselves
and move among the things you cannot name,
and what you know by touch and tact
seems merely a vanishing thing.