Names
Why— why do I want it
so badly, my name
next to my words?
A thousand, tens of thousands,
a hundred thousand years
of nameless singers—
something remembers us.
And those who danced.
And those who sat by the fire,
swaying, clapping their hands.
Or grinning, eyes closed—
or looking shyly, across
at that other, beautiful—
then looking down, and then again
across the fire’s sparks
My notes: I don’t know how I feel about the end of this one. Is it done? But I also feel like this is the constant question. I mean, should I come back next week and try to add on to this? Or is it better to begin something new?
