You tried not to let him take your language 

the way the sea in winter takes your breath, 

his mind becomes coincident with yours, 

though people sometimes talk of little deaths 

that seems inapt to you, dishonest, 

because death in miniature is not death 

it cannot be examined from all sides, 

death has, as he had, its own logic, 

but it is not human, it is tidal 

and hence more rigorous, dependable 

even though the sound it makes resembles 

closely your own voice, it makes you say things 

you would never say, an echo which lies, 

a face shone on a rockpool by the sun 

and then destroyed by clouds, wind, ripple, gone.