I’ve been left alone in my class as I always am.

I observe how beige encrustings work on the ceiling humming electronically in this feeble light we have with our current weather like mistied silver with choked charcoal out of someone’s throat stoic with inexistent illness.

It seems to me I’m pressed with time to go out as I usually am
by some codexes
but I just can’t help being glued standing to my chair and watching with an unspecified wistfulness and melancholy as students’ bike
/
come and go here from above
/
and no one knows how many afternoons of watching or window sill standing I’ve spent like that,
where the window the teacher has every time overlooks one
of these trees only I keep in my mind’s eye
and all that with me included stays
abandoned (but not exactly morosely) to play the part of watch keepers lasting still
like pillars no one will account for.

And l felt how my shift there and the thing I and this room made chose you to be answered there.
And as I couldn’t help but keep carrying the conscience luggage with you within it so carefully whilst I was blending my abandoned singing there with how you might be transfixing yourself in perplexities of uncertainty.
And I’m telling you I read your text place just when it came, have been carrying you as my desired task to, as an injured animal yet with no degradation this state. I kept making a letter I would give inside my eyes and small fidgets of hands.

I wonder at how it is I who writes
and how it is You who writes.
One another.

I go to school
To learn new things
And they taught me
"There is no place for curiosity."

All my balloon
Rise so high
For finding their cloud
In this vast sky.
I admire the scene
With contented eyes
Seeing my balloons
Floating in sky

Maybe,
Ages later
When they reached there
They say it with sigh
That it was me
Who filled air inside
And brought them here
Releasing  thread of their
To let them fly.

For now,
With a smile
I say Goodbye
For I have more balloons
Waiting to fly.

Write between the lime juice lines,
And basil blood,
On the cutting board
To the rhythm of cooks' kitchen knives,

Write between the wet mop tendril trails,
On the reused restaurant floor,
As you carried to clean
A mistake some rich man made,

Write to the beat of the press,
Punching out the steel form,
In accordance with the curriculum,

Write in the silent moments,
Chewing homemade sandwiches
Through the cigarette smoked sunrise

Write between stun grenade blasts
After cleaning tear gas attacks

Write in between ****** boot prints,
The shape of the state seal
Congealed to the street.

caste to caste,
we are on a pyramidal paste.
less to none, the options to outclass
this is the cry of an outcast.