[Untitled, p. 35]

A group of almost anything

Has a name: crows are a murder,

& flamingoes a flamboyance.

Most of the others I don’t know.

A group of empty shot glasses

Is called a disaster; of empty

Rooms, a yesterday; a collection

Of tomorrows, even if dreamed,

If desired, craved for like a some

Small child wanting one more story

At bedtime, is called hope. Too

Many nights when all I had was hope.

No collective noun exists to hold

All the people you love. If we name

It at all wouldn’t it be abundance?

I have an abundance of loves

& even when I am lonely, especially

Then, they show up. It rains outside,

& inside everyone I love sleeps.

There is no word for listening

To them breathe, but if there were,

It would be the Antithesis of murder.

Crows always remember a face,

Is what I read once, & can recall it as if

A part of a dream, & so I’ve always

Thought a house full of loves

Is a dreaming, & what better word

For listening to all your loves breathe

At night than a dreaming? What more

Could any of us ask of the dusk?