Nameless Things

Things disintegrate on the tongue without names. Any good poem knows to title something for what it is. So I’ve been frustrated by the stream of thoughts these days, echoes without a home on the page. A certain species of tree that blooms in a purple edging on magenta for a few weeks, in flowers small enough to transform the branches into a brilliant color, before it bursts into green and forgets itself in its leaves for the summer. Or the small species of bird that cries for more than just a small chirp shortly after dawn; rather with a long, agonizingly beautiful call that contains somehow every single Saturday morning waking in the attic bedroom at my father’s house, peering through the cracks in the sunlit curtains, glowing, alive.


About A B

"There is all this untouched beauty, the light, the dark, both running through me." -Over The Rhine
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