what's in a name

of the 22,000 shades of silence,
those imbued with the colour blue
live in a full-bodied red,
but alphabetically,
cerulian,
cobalt,
indigo,
navy,
phthalo
and ultramarine
yet when dragged-dry across canvas,
resemble the (f)light of my father's hands
on ivoried blacksandwhites, his piano-ed evenings
like BB King's slide into the tide of Louise,
another slow Sunday after-the-night-before,
misguided relentlessness,
(the beginnings of) unrestrainable rust on a car,
the four-year-old ocean in Isabelle's eyes
as she laughs at my jokes
with her slippery second-hand glance,
insights ripped from uncertainty,
the slow stretch of time from in-between places
that creases my paper,
linguistic bridges pulled taut by the sound
of a listening moon when attuned to the fold
of 26 loyal lead-lettered soldiers
and me