Bones of Names We Found in June

Small words have to fight to say it right, since
Big words make most of the names and hard facts.

A list of us won’t look too real or bright—
Rock, moon, star, elm, lake, crow, marsh, race, rape, fire,

Sin, hurt, crime, war, and no time off for lunch.
You can do some things with a list like that,

But there are no real names in all those nouns
And no dates, no fixed place to pin the deeds.

You need sprawled words to point out acts and lives,
To paint praise and cast shades. But that’s not all;

That’s not the worst of it. Small words are old,
At least in this tongue, and worn smooth as stones

Once carved as facts and lies, now close to blank,
Faint, all but mute, as beach glass, as drowned towns.

This is its own truth, this shelf of knick-knacks
And kitsch washed up, hauled out, lost from their frames,

Their scenes in which they once meant strict, clear-cut,
Close, pained, scarred things. Like the words that say so,

That sit in thick dust, lined up on these shelves,
What meant one thing will come to mean more things,

As strict and harsh get rolled smooth, vague, and soft,
And in the end not mean a thing at all.

Still, that won’t help. You have to name some names,
Veer from verse, name some souls to say it right.