The future
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
Proust.
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
understand.
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
Union Jack.
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
veins
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
Wordsworth.
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.
~William Hammett
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