... on the ceiling of the night

THE NAMES
    by Billy Collins




Yesterday, I lay awake in the palm of the night.
    A soft rain stole in, unhelped by any breeze,
    And when I saw the silver glaze on the windows,
    I started with A, with Ackerman, as it happened,
    Then Baxter and Calabro,
    Davis and Eberling, names falling into place
    As droplets fell through the dark.

Names printed on the ceiling of the night.
    Names slipping around a watery bend.
    Twenty-six willows on the banks of a stream.
    In the morning, I walked out barefoot
    Among thousands of flowers
    Heavy with dew like the eyes of tears,
    And each had a name --
    Fiori inscribed on a yellow petal
    Then Gonzalez and Han, Ishikawa and Jenkins.

Names written in the air
    And stitched into the cloth of the day.
    A name under a photograph taped to a mailbox.
    Monogram on a torn shirt,
    I see you spelled out on storefront windows
    And on the bright unfurled awnings of this city.
    I say the syllables as I turn a corner --
    Kelly and Lee,
    Medina, Nardella, and O'Connor.

When I peer into the woods,
    I see a thick tangle where letters are hidden
    As in a puzzle concocted for children.
    Parker and Quigley in the twigs of an ash,
    Rizzo, Schubert, Torres, and Upton,
    Secrets in the boughs of an ancient maple.

Names written in the pale sky.
    Names rising in the updraft amid buildings.
    Names silent in stone
    Or cried out behind a door.
    Names blown over the earth and out to sea.

In the evening -- weakening light, the last swallows.
    A boy on a lake lifts his oars.
    A woman by a window puts a match to a candle,
    And the names are outlined on the rose clouds --
    Vanacore and Wallace,
    (let X stand, if it can, for the ones unfound)
    Then Young and Ziminsky, the final jolt of Z.
    Names etched on the head of a pin.
    One name spanning a bridge, another undergoing a tunnel.
    A blue name needled into the skin.

Names of citizens, workers, mothers and fathers,
    The bright-eyed daughter, the quick son.
    Alphabet of names in a green field.
    Names in the small tracks of birds.
    Names lifted from a hat
    Or balanced on the tip of the tongue.
    Names wheeled into the dim warehouse of memory.
    So many names, there is barely room on the walls of the heart.



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