[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?