astronomers gesticulate and talk
about supernovas and questions swallowed by black holes
while lit majors try to unravel the Gordian Knot
that is the streaming prose of Joyce and
Two lovers speak of biology, their arms encircled
around each other’s waists like a double helix
as they silently rehearse the spiraling pleasure
they will take when the clock tower chimes two.
The dusty chalkboard behind me is littered
with numbers and Greek letters I do not
I move to the sash window, paint flakes on the floor,
and look again at the brilliant white sidewalks
crisscrossing the quad as if it were a
Everyone below is an equation trying to solve an equation.
I study the branches of a salacious sycamore
a few feet from the pane of glass, the
of each green leaf a roadmap to creation’s cause.
In an old wooden desk, I sit and break the spine
of an analog textbook to read a line from
There is really no pressing mystery to be solved
on this day dyed in deep shades of spring.
My mind wanders lonely as a cloud
in a room where idleness, no longer quadratic, is allowed.
For me, the world is a sum that has been reconciled—
the numbers and Greek letters now align—
to the right of some cosmic equals sign.
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