If... I want to start with the word if...
but you will not let me.
You will ignore the premise and dive,
seeking your own reason, for the literal,
for the fish below the water:
for the tree I marked, or the flower I picked,
or the perceived of confession
couched in the tender word if.
You will not look inside yourself
if I ask. You are the face at the window,
the mouse half seen, the itch that does not itch
and then itches in the night.
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