naming

moon,

I should wait

long, long

 and never shut

my eyes entirely

to find your  name.

I must, in the nudity

of whiskey’s neat

water, wait, yes

 wait

for you to fall,

to vanish,

to, in the pool

 my face may graze,

delay the break

in the clouds

seeding there.

Where whole herds

and flocks of things

gather.

And an antelope,

whose tiny hairs

and velvet muzzle

find their way to you

   in a dark that can prompt

no shadow, pressure,

or caress. Their thirst

 gathers above it all.

 Or a Tiger

Swallowtail,

paused

 in such a dark

awaiting

something

warmer.

I think my surrender

is too shallow.

And my naming

too hurried.

What remains

of the night

at the shoreline

when everything

else has left,

is that what I name?

And while I don’t know clouds

I do know they are not

reflection, I know they

cannot, cannot

be contained

because what is named

needs space

enough to sense

edges,

to trust a cloud’s

  cloister, distinct,

and ever thin

on the surface,

a chrysalis

grown entirely

inside it all

just so it can break

through it all.

You teach me

 how to wait.

I’m afraid I’m not

all that patient.

I’m afraid

my tongue

 moves

faster

than my feet.

  I’m afraid

once a word falls

 it never seems to

fit.  Maybe if I looked

at you, in broad

 enough darkness

  with an umbrella

beneath my chin,

all my senseless letters

will fall and sough,

harmless—and hushed,

 and words would sift

with the dignity

of warmth,

the way a vein

on a butterfly wing

 will swallow

heat

and ebb it into

 the edges

and then fall,

 in unseeable drops

pushing it all down

then up,

up,

beautifully up,

again

and again,

and again,

into the air.

Sitting here,

not long enough,

I begin to think

there is some betrayal

in trying to name all this.

Isn’t there.  Something

of it is too convoluted,

time in the dark too short. 

Teach me. 

Teach me to look long

and say nothing,

to know

and not need, easily,

 to name at all.