Taxonomic Confessions by Nate Braeuer

Silhouette of man against dusky sky — Photo by Joran Quinten on *Unsplash*

I mix up the names of common furniture pieces
like cupboards and cabinets, closets and shelves

And bureaus. And Ursas, both major and minor

Armoires. To know only of somethingness—

I can’t name one star and I’ve waited so long
for these cupped hands to dip they’ve grown stoic

I lie down in night frost

the twin clotheslines above

cross like high wires

for timid constellations

I feel space like I’ve reached

the cold region of a cabinet—

I watch keyholes flicker starlight

from a closet

If I could rise to the skyline

cast deep in my head

through all the drapes and the curtains

and the blinds

beyond all the known names

for the knobs or the nebulas

or the hush hidden wheels

that move drawers—

lies the almost-here memory

of a time when the eye

absolved all it could see

into beginning

Nate Braeuer came to poetry through songwriting, through Texas, New York and Charlottesville. He’s read poetry all his life and began to find lines of his own in dog walks, parking lots and dishwashing. These poems were born on suburban streets at night. Many thanks to the WriterHouse in Charlottesville for their support.