Few will remember my name, he said

loftily, as though it were grander far

than those stuffing fame’s decrepit chapel.

If you’ll note, he went on, no name is more

acclaimed than Anon! He’s wrong,

we all know, but if that’s the attitude

that fuels his acts of creation, who’re

we to bray like senators, Nay! Nyet! Non!

Fools? What? Fooling around under blank

sheets, as if without fear of this virginal

territory – all that clean white screaming

(not?) to be stained. Leak on it, why not?

Stain the glass with your lips so the light

searching for the floor will press the kiss

to the foot-worn stone. Few will feel it

touching their bared souls, but those who

surrender and stretch out under its

indifference. How many unwed toes

have stepped this way to the knot? We

could lie here, cross, because the stone’s

no good for our desk-beckoned backs,

and dream of history, let up our names

on the heat of a breath, and watch for

the scroll to unroll and cover our foreheads.

Remember me, said the stone, and, on

the morrow, stiffly rising, we do.