Ode To The Students & Those Who Want Them Well

We are silvering

We are not tinsel, flat
Nor tinny, shallow sound whose echoes won’t be known a year from now
We are, “Mr. Watson, come here. I want to see you.”

We are precious shine
Mined from the deep
Ribbons of pricelessness chiseled from someplace dark we’d entered into
Unknowingly, perhaps, but prepared nonetheless
Thence emerged, the metal of us hard-earned

We cannot be traded, bartered, or sold
We are made of this
We are made from this

Will they see us in next century’s sky?
Yes! And, ’til the 12th of Never

Canyons, ancient, will carry our collective voice

We are silvering, and are not second-place

Our Only Company

How
Are you handling this
The noise, increasing, asks

I long ago learned to shut up
I can only answer
I meme

Picking up each piece of all that falls
The thousands of them
While the fluorescent hums

I will stay
I will stay
He needs me

The sounds rise
Echo and pin-ball bounce
Through the hollow

August Against The Red

Only for me, look up at the black?

Count by 1000’s as you brush your jaw.  Be warm?

When you kick up your legs and close your eyes, recount to me the silver you saw?

Oh say, did you find the quiet I lost as August echoed against the red?