I don’t know the Latin names of flowers.
I know that there are cities wherein stars

Will labor to appear in bursts of as
Or under, will command the color green

To work with from or of or in in staves
And paragraphs, will demarcate the limits

Of the sky. I recognize the colors
Of acacia from paintings and poems.

I know a high wind carries rhyme across
The ocean. That smoke, it coaxes signals

From the fire. What words you speak I too
Have spoken of: of of, the turning back,

The opening beyond and up above us,
The movement forward and the reasoning

Behind. I know that the horizon falls out
Of perspective, that toward music the sea

Will harken back and find in language
No beauty save impermanence, a minor awe.