This Unnamed Building
stands in a flood of leaves, raises its head
through an ocean of cloud. All night
this unnamed building calls to the river
with a song like smoke. Who comes home
to this sullen door? Whose palm prints
smudge the glass? I name you for the grass
and all the wet and broken sticks, for snow
gathering strength to the north, for eels
and mud and geese. I name you for breath
and tongue and teeth. Here in the hot stir
of language I struggle with my voice to reach
your name. When owls flash in cold
moonlight spilled on the river’s flesh,
what words will rise unbidden to thirsty lips?