i have a number of young students

sixteen, seventeen year olds

they're smart, quick-witted

and fucked up with pessimism

and disillusion

i suffer from terminal cynicism myself

but i am getting old.

them, they're only kids.

i try to cheer them up,

'eh, chin up, you babies
there are things to be optimistic about'

'well give us an example'

one of them challenges, 

cocky, rebellious

- and this i love, the defiance in them.

so i say

'that you're still alive'

and they smile at my response

and i don't know whether

i'm happy for them or if

they're happy for me.

what do i do with you?

there used to be 

a wind

carving up the landscape

where i send my 

infant stories to play.

whatever remains,

these hills and valleys

- they're not mine

and i am not myself.

in this world where

everything is understood

there's a stillness

which seeps into

the bone.