Before my
name, or my
parents’ names,
before the
parents or
places where
countless name-
less firsts were
born, where they
farmed, hunted,
gathered in
tribes, bands, clans,
colonies,
canopies—
the old one
contemplates
the nameless
savannah.
His branch has
no known name,
the tree has
no known name.
He thinks: I
shall climb down
so the song
may begin.
After the
first naming,
particles
rushed to fill
every wild
space. Many
particles
were anni-
hilated.
Some remain—
the primal
lithe body,
and the trunk
of his tree,
my body
and the walls
of my home—
for instance.