Under the strict ancient discipline
of December skies,
headstone gray
and just as heavy,
it is growing
more and more difficult
to recall the faces
of erstwhile companions—
the iridescent jetliner starlings'
and glowing
cardinals' sanguine singing,
those faithful rosy
churchyard perennials bowing
humble and drowsy
to uncomplicated wind—
than it is
simply to recite
in alphabetical order
rigid lists
of all of their names
in Latin—quick
as we can—
before we get a frostbitten rap
on the knuckles again.
