| David Brendan Hopes
| The Ones with Difficult Names
The least beetle walks like flame between the flames
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.