The names we carry
Are phantoms and windy whisps
Across our lips.
Stored in the shed,
Beneath our pillows,
Deep in the mattresses
Of our beds.
Wash them as laundry,
And don them again.
How many eyes
Have read these
Granite names
On copper plates.
Whose ears have heard
These names
Mumbled in our sleep;
Or,
Are they set so deep
For private sorrow
And personal refrain.
These, our names.
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