nights exist, nightshade exists
the dark side, the cloak of namelessness exists
the northern limits of consciousness exist, there
where what is dreamed opens and closes its
northerly crown in nastic turnings
without day and night being definitely
placed, without nadir, zenith
straight below or above and without
the naos, the innermost space of the cell
revealing whether the seed in an inner sky
gathers the limits of consciousness into a point
a flowering point where like a bit of sunshine
ice ages exist, ice ages exist
where like a bit of fire the insects’ wingless
Nike exists, neither victory nor
defeat, just the solace of nothing;
the solace of names, that nothing has
a name, namelessness has a name
that names exist, names like narwhal
nettle, names like carnation, tawny owl
and nightjar, names like nightingale, new moon
evening primrose, naiads, and the other kind of
name in which a word when named is scent
like the narwhal’s name for Arctic seas,
the nettles’ names for fever, like carnations’
names for light reflected into factory-white
nights, like the tawny owl’s, the nightjar’s names
for feathers, the nightingale’s names for being
an Old World warbler hidden in moist thickets
like the new moon’s names for Earth and Sun
the evening primrose family’s names for kinship
like the naiads’ names for being pondweed
whispering the naiads’ names in wind