No hideout lasts. The deer that startled
Across the path had no names. The path
Had no name. The meadow the path crossed
Had no name, and if it were to be given one,
What then? The man with a quiver of names,
Every one of them fletched and razor sharp,
Bided his time in the meadow. Do you know
How time is bided? You have to let it waste
You, while you pretend you are wasting it.
The names he brought while he bided
His time may endure as artifacts for another
Generation to consider. But not likely.
The anonymity of the meadow, its deer,
Thrushes, wildflowers, grasses, birches,
And busy species of insects in summer,
Was secure. A name, known or unknown,
Is a bone, a jawbone, a tooth. It functions
For a while, then burns or cracks among
The endlessly anonymous stones.
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