Past square concrete potted shrubs,
along off-white wind tunnels that meld
voices, storm-tossed in a snow-globe;
amid graffiti bells, fountains turned off
during winter; tinted glass and tamed
yellow minotaurs grazing long steel girders
as the college expands away from letters;
choosing blues called "azure empyrean,"
against whites called "Navajo white."
Here, I can still sense manifold petals
torn by wrinkled palms; here, I still choke
on ragweed pollen, and step on thistles,
flowering prickles that sting like a lion's
tooth, sharp as a rabid dog-paw.
Let's trace ourselves back, suddenly awake
in a stranger's bed, our hands growing sand-
paper stubble, our hair sealed, a fleshy hood.
Let's hope we make the cut (as though some
******* *** stands giggling over a
panoramic graduating class shot,
dripping battery acid where our ink
is set to run dry).
Here would be a bad place
to die. So, snug with vanity, let's think
in milestones and take a close-up of
the middle distance:
wait, is that a
garbage bag? No, zoom in, blow it up; is
that a number, a body, a letter,
a heap of leaves, or is that just a poem?