The Words We Have Spoken (Stephen Dobyns)

At first they look like rocks or pieces of glass,
anything that's been sharpened or has a point—
shards of pottery, broken sticks. But really
they are teeth stretching from one side of the valley
to the other. Where did they come from? we wonder.
They are ours. These are the words we have spoken
in anger, thrown at each other in attack
or defense, and now they form a barrier.
Can we get around them? I don't know the way.
I think of you on the other side, lonely
and as unhappy as I am; but possibly
you are content in a room with white walls,
flowering plants, a room where I might even
be welcome could I discover the right roads.
From my side of the valley, I see darkness
climbing the distant hills. It is getting late.
We have to learn to save ourselves, change ourselves,
or else we'll come to a time when love won't help—
night of no welcome, night of the long indifference.