Our names are secret. Do not whisper some
invention; I’ll know it for another lie.
I’ll know it as the darkened wishes, dead
within you, those you would were true.
Come, day. Come with roses and the rot
of centuries. You bear the secret name,
the name I hazard with each sun that rises
across the death of nightly comfort.
The mockingbird has sung it. The almost-words
linger. Read what is upon the grass;
wind passes, writes, erases. Read what is
when cloud forms transitory rune.
Unknown, we greet each other. I shall name
you so today and not so on the morrow.
And, tomorrow, whose voice might I hear?
My own, no other. Our names are secret.
Stephen Brooke ©2018