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THOSE WHO REMAINED UNNAMED
And the freak tide still piles
its bottle-green chunks, its broken
light, over their up-turned
and expectant faces, their eyes
blurring like cabin windows going
dark under chutes of sleet.
Who was to blame they went down
wide-eyed, minds like wistful
bubbles that cling and shrink
into themselves? Had there been
names, names flung like rafts out
into the storm, they might
have held, have bobbed alongside
like the indexed fish, have stayed.
Strange but unquestionable,
companionable almost, nudging
the frayed edge of vision, they fill
the torn air with querulous cries.
But none had his companion, none
his like. No thing in common.
Nor with what fathered them.
In retrospect, we call those faint
lights, eyes; attribute mouths
and minds; suppose heart and hand
and groin. None had a mate. No
one and one came to be counted
a pair. Too quiet they were
to be bullied aboard and stowed.
Not all that God saw good
did Adam see, telling his stock,
his fist like stone holding
the hoe, the tiller, the pen,
contriving memory, while those
for whom he found no name—those
who arrived punctually, daily,
yet were unrecognized—those
without species, phylum, kingdom,
monstrously unpredictable,
swam through the darkness
and, like the trash of heaven,
rained down in bits of brilliance
that left no trace to mourn.
   
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