For A Conersation

By Elizabeth Allo

Our private thoughts form pools, they do not meet,
But mutual need for language makes us find
Their wave deserted treasures where they lie.
Here is a round shell, like a white coin, shining,
Here is a green bottle glass, of magic powers;
This is a hermit crab, these are my tiny gifts
Upon the sand, collected by small tides -
Gifts costly as speech, which the looting lovewards
child must give, passionate with diffidence,
Knowing his shining water treasures fade.
His shell will break, discarded, and our thoughts
Must lie like pools, adjacent and apart.