The Names
Names etched on
the head of a pin.
One name spanning
a bridge, another
undergoing a tunnel.
A blue name needled
into the skin.
Names of citizens,
workers, mothers,
and fathers,
The bright-eyed
daughter, the quick son.
Alphabet of names in
a green field.
Names in the small tracks of birds.
Names lifted from a hat
Or balanced on
the tip of the tongue.
Names wheeled
into the dim warehouse
of memory.
So many names, there
is barely room on
the walls of the heart.
By Billy Collins, American poet laureate
Fragment from a poem dedicated to the victims of September 11 and to their survivors.