Argentina fixed her gaze.
Corrected mouth and brow
to show she's fine with your misuse
of name. Given to her long ago, and
well-worn out all since, she'd thought.
Her favorite color: was argent. A metal,
silver, heraldry. When Tina was romantic
once. Some wag caught on, put two and too
together into countryside as alien as her
to you. She'd loved it then, when silver shined.
She's realized since by gleamed degrees,
it's just a slanting bar of white. Not metal:
Cloth. Or paint. Or stain. Enameled clean,
but scrapes or rubs right off to show
what's just beneath. Impure, unsure,
and sinister in lean.
Not right.
This friend, stands though: revealed. Old friend.
So long we've grown. And one is silver, one
is gold. Is either fit to carry on? Is either worth
the keeping, now? All metal grows so false
when told, somehow. All of the sliver fades
to moonlight; in the sun it's vanished, gone.
And nature's gold is scarce to find. Except
in counterfeits,
and song.
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