.
The teacher
has the mouth of a poet–
an inclined pronoun shackles her tone.
Even the trees sit and toss acorns toward
her open mouth.
Solar winds blew through like the warm
wrinkled fingers of a mad,
midnight whimsy through her unmanageable mane–
same hands, same absence…
There’s even a new quantum fusion of minds
unwilling to choke on the cyanosis of Neptune,
because Saturn is still spinning–
threatening to slice open a trillion stars
across the universal divide which refuse to arc and bow.
(That really makes the sky appear blue.)
.
