David Brendan Hopes
 The Ones with Difficult Names
  The least beetle walks like flame between the flames
  of flowers.
  My bitter father transforms into a sage, wrinkled and smiling.
  Evening comes and children laugh upon his doorstep.
  Oh, then night speeds with bent brave wing
  between the cities and the mountain.
  I think I have been writing one poem and jamming it
  into one tune, and I think, after all, that has been right.
  My brilliant peers have fallen by the wayside.
  I with my one string and boring O of wonder have endured.
  Listen. The secret was whispered me as I gathered
  the worst flowers, the ones with the difficult names
  and the trying habitats between the cataracts
  and  blue ice.  
  The ones in the thoroughfares, first trampled,
  first fighting back.
  One verse and one refrain, which have,
  unexpectedly, filled my mouth with praise.