Youth As A Metaphor

Vintage Words

Young as a shoot from a bean planted

in a paper cup only I can see or paint pale

green. Young as some intellect unperfected,

a coming up of ages. Wages on the horizon,

you seem to have a way of speaking all your

own in nineteenese, to keep out the ears

of the unwanted and the unwelcome.


Young is beautiful, but transient. Gorgeous youth

bound in twenty-one, twenty four. Ancients painted

you on the walls of the pyramids, sang you in the halls

of folks no one has yet discovered, lip sinked the song

of you as sixteen, seventeen. They died early then too.


Youth has new skin, new cells wanting to be

respected as a thing, not as a vague concept. Walking

down halls claiming spaces no one acknowledges

as yours. There they be, those displacements of air,

those chapel mirrors where you become your own

object of affection and praise. Young blood

is in your limbs where God is talking to us through

you; only we do not know the child-speak

of the hop generation because veneration is our

creed. We have not yet found the reason to need

a link to the zone you inhabit. Be forever separate.

Learn togetherness eventually.


Youth, lady and lad, so bad, and glad to own

the way of wearing your hair. For a hoot and a

hot minute, you stride corridors like gladiators

fresh from idyllic centuries. I know you,

remember you from decades ago. It has not

changed, not really. You are us. It has to be that







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