Kenning

Kenning

We walk downhill
on paths
not meant for us,
our talk
strong unguent
for a scar,
which now I give no notice.

From there, outstretched
beyond the trees--
the trees
all huddled
in their corner,
between the fence
and field--

something
calls her down to us:
some daughter-love-- no, more--
her precise sense
that there should be
no place beside you
without her.

She knows,
she knows, I think,
what words
must never rise
from one
who, once again,
might speak too much of truth.