From the valedictorian, from

the salutatorian, from the row of

seated conceited professorial

professor-confessor types,

the nervous flap is contagious.

The field frowns, furrows

form in consternation.  Though

Poe’s raven was black, it’s

the white one we watch for, the one

we never see that can crush us.

 

The Raven said it all:  love

and Lenore and nevermore.

 

No one yawns, no one dares

blink a beady eye.  Ravenous,

our appetites have carried us

to the brink where we hover

not quite above it all.  Not quite

able to keep the proper perspective.

From whose shoulders do Odin’s 

Thought and Memory perch now?

Each time the audience claps,

that’s one more wing that snaps.

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