Another failed poem

The days of my life rain fall like leaves
at your feet, any
 B
I the The days of my life, like falling leaves, pass
thru the space between your head and mine. We look
toward
We look at each other, then away — you’re looking
in the distance somewhere, but I’m studying the bark
of this tree, its whorls and knots as distinct
as a fingerprint, or so I’m told. I don’t know
how can anyone know anything? Direct observation,
I suppose
       There are too many variables
to truly know, to really have