Knowing some Greek helped defuse forbidding words - not that I counted much on using them. You'll find only trace elements of this language in the poem.

He wanted to cry quietly but not for himself: for the words, so beautiful and sad, like music.

Summer afternoon, summer afternoon; to me those have always been the two most beautiful words in the English language

A poem, as a manifestation of language and thus essentially dialogue, can be a message in a bottle, sent out in the –not always greatly hopeful-belief that somewhere and sometime it could wash up on land, on heartland perhaps. Poems in this sense too are under way: they are making toward something. Toward what? Toward something standing open, occupiable, perhaps toward an addressable Thou, toward an addressable reality.

Strange about parents. We have such easy access to them and such daunting problems of communication.

It's to determine who was counted and who hasn't been counted.