David Brendan Hopes
	The Ones with Difficult Names        The least beetle walks like flame between the flames   of flowers.     My bitter father transforms into a sage, wrinkled and smiling.   Evening comes and children laugh upon his doorstep.     Oh, then night speeds with bent brave wing   between the cities and the mountain.     I think I have been writing one poem and jamming it   into one tune, and I think, after all, that has been right.     My brilliant peers have fallen by the wayside.   I with my one string and boring O of wonder have endured.     Listen. The secret was whispered me as I gathered   the worst flowers, the ones with the difficult names     and the trying habitats between the cataracts   and  blue ice.       The ones in the thoroughfares, first trampled,   first fighting back.     One verse and one refrain, which have,   unexpectedly, filled my mouth with praise.