A Name Has Heard

A name has heard how many callings?
Called for trying’s sake through wires of private air.
Multitudes and all needles of desire.
A noun being a moon…the infinite gazings
And with tip-of-the tongue regret. Limitlessly
though, the just name would burn close to itself,
a Sun and, bursting into a fierce face, become.

But to speak of the Sun.
What a dishonor, unless the universe were just
And I were myself, a moon.
And I were by myself
A Sun.

How these volumes revolve
And revolve, hollering in passing
As the antecedent forever faces inward!
No matter, tugging little satellite.
When you feel your breath
Shoot away from your stretching face
You’ll know it’s time

To fall and curl, fall
And curl, blindly swirl down, misunderstood
As the misguided spoon, dipping,
collapses cool surface-tensed film
Into your cradle—the tongue, yours,
Never to be burned by the sacred
unnamable true.