Here are the many-colored portals of history,
where rain slides down city windows
like weak wine,
and we each receive tongues of flame
and names, like
Ubermensch, and
Rose of Sharon,
to cover our childish names:
Drink of Dust, and
Watch the Sky.
So we travel this way,
or that way, and someone says,
“Do you like this apartment?
You can live here, and work, and cook, and love,
and say whatever you want,
unlike Joan of Arc.
In fact, her ashes were mixed
into the brickwork of this fireplace;
now you can both send a burnt offering
to heaven every night.”
But this is what I’m saying:
if we drifted backwards awhile, perhaps,
we’d remember
those other names.