They Will Sew the Blue Sail


If nothing else could rouse you

for seven days, then conclamatio

the eager singing of your name

relentless and in group, the gathers

of robes touching one great circle—

commenced. And on the eighth night

of no response the pollinctores came;

doused you with a dust of flowers

that once made you sneeze but now

became your mask of pallid unbeing.

If you were at peace when last vocal,

your given name was called. But if

there was fear you were in peril,

nicknames confounded the nicks,

the demons that seemed to seek you.

If you were reachable in any world

other than this one, the repetition

of the word they called you by,

your name, would guide you back.