The Names
Yesterday, I lay awake in the palm of the night.
A soft rain stole in, unhelped by any breeze,
And when I saw the silver
glaze on the windows,
I started with A, with Ackerman, as it happened,
Then Baxter and Calabro,
Davis and Eberling, names falling into place
As droplets fell through the dark.
Names printed on the ceiling of the
night.
Names slipping around a watery bend.
Twenty-six willows on the
banks of a stream.
In the morning, I walked out barefoot
Among thousands
of flowers
Heavy with dew like the eyes of tears,
And each had a name —
Fiori inscribed on a yellow petal
Then Gonzalez and Han, Ishikawa and
Jenkins.
Names written in the air
And stitched into the cloth of the
day.
A name under a photograph taped to a mailbox.
Monogram on a torn
shirt,
I see you spelled out on storefront windows
And on the bright
unfurled awnings of this city.
I say the syllables as I turn a corner —
Kelly and Lee,
Medina, Nardella, and O'Connor.
When I peer into the
woods,
I see a thick tangle where letters are hidden
As in a puzzle
concocted for children.
Parker and Quigley in the twigs of an ash,
Rizzo, Schubert, Torres, and Upton,
Secrets in the boughs of an ancient
maple.
Names written in the pale sky.
Names rising in the updraft amid
buildings.
Names silent in stone
Or cried out behind a door.
Names
blown over the earth and out to sea.
In the evening — weakening light, the
last swallows.
A boy on a lake lifts his oars.
A woman by a window puts
a match to a candle,
And the names are outlined on the rose clouds —
Vanacore and Wallace,
(let X stand, if it can, for the ones unfound)
Then Young and Ziminsky, the final jolt of Z.
Names etched on the head
of a pin.
One name spanning a bridge, another undergoing a tunnel.
A
blue name needled into the skin.
Names of citizens, workers, mothers and
fathers,
The bright-eyed daughter, the quick son.
Alphabet of names in a
green field.
Names in the small tracks of birds.
Names lifted from a hat
Or balanced on the tip of the tongue.
Names wheeled into the dim
warehouse of memory.
So many names, there is barely room on the walls of the
heart.
A soft rain stole in, unhelped by any breeze,
And when I saw the silver
glaze on the windows,
I started with A, with Ackerman, as it happened,
Then Baxter and Calabro,
Davis and Eberling, names falling into place
As droplets fell through the dark.
Names printed on the ceiling of the
night.
Names slipping around a watery bend.
Twenty-six willows on the
banks of a stream.
In the morning, I walked out barefoot
Among thousands
of flowers
Heavy with dew like the eyes of tears,
And each had a name —
Fiori inscribed on a yellow petal
Then Gonzalez and Han, Ishikawa and
Jenkins.
Names written in the air
And stitched into the cloth of the
day.
A name under a photograph taped to a mailbox.
Monogram on a torn
shirt,
I see you spelled out on storefront windows
And on the bright
unfurled awnings of this city.
I say the syllables as I turn a corner —
Kelly and Lee,
Medina, Nardella, and O'Connor.
When I peer into the
woods,
I see a thick tangle where letters are hidden
As in a puzzle
concocted for children.
Parker and Quigley in the twigs of an ash,
Rizzo, Schubert, Torres, and Upton,
Secrets in the boughs of an ancient
maple.
Names written in the pale sky.
Names rising in the updraft amid
buildings.
Names silent in stone
Or cried out behind a door.
Names
blown over the earth and out to sea.
In the evening — weakening light, the
last swallows.
A boy on a lake lifts his oars.
A woman by a window puts
a match to a candle,
And the names are outlined on the rose clouds —
Vanacore and Wallace,
(let X stand, if it can, for the ones unfound)
Then Young and Ziminsky, the final jolt of Z.
Names etched on the head
of a pin.
One name spanning a bridge, another undergoing a tunnel.
A
blue name needled into the skin.
Names of citizens, workers, mothers and
fathers,
The bright-eyed daughter, the quick son.
Alphabet of names in a
green field.
Names in the small tracks of birds.
Names lifted from a hat
Or balanced on the tip of the tongue.
Names wheeled into the dim
warehouse of memory.
So many names, there is barely room on the walls of the
heart.