But I don’t know
            their names—rust
 

worked under each
            wing like sweat
 

lunettes; synthetic
            silk crest stitched
 

to a white head;
            small gears completely
 

grease preening
            ash, mechanical
 

sheen of oil,
            charcoal—only
 

this description eats
            and screams
 

squanders territory.
            What use is it
 

to see? Faith
             the world is knowable?
 

There are ways
             to understand
 

and none is living
             or lyric, limp
 

or stutter.
             If I send a letter

(this sudden utter
             other means
 

than speech)
             when I don’t
 

know to love
             language other
 

than to run
             a larceny
 

all machine and god-
             likeness, gear
 

and hinge, pocket
             watch, tie-

pin, money clip and wing
             tip, my father’s
 

impostor I am
             then, my words
 

a mere guess at
             what isn’t. It isn’t
 

mastery I’m after.
             It’s certain
 

other terms
             than my own
 

I wait for. For
             instance : birds
 

without names
             fly anyway
 

ceaselessly
             up the ladder
 

cast from visible
             to invisible—is it
 

it only seems
             there’s a way
 

to know the way?