Words are the cup I drink from, containing my perceptions and restorations. Words set blazing in me even as I put them down, rivers of restorative color that medicate me as does Schubert here and there. Jeremy Fire, you must be honest to lift the great song. Don’t let old memory get lost in the woods. The butterfly wing and tear light are native here. Words are the cup I drink from. Schirra I will remember when a lot of other things are ruins. Strike up the music for a page of poetry. “The poet speaks syllables of mangled silver.”