#80

There are 7 days for every story. And a year for every day. The artistry of distraction, perhaps. Or as Square said, from the thin grey lines of rain, "Often, but un poco at a time, like Swann." The rolled cuffs of his jeans, the denim darker, blue. The refrain at corner lights of boots in puddles. "To impede the sky its replication." Thunder's grumble.

In desks on days at first week's end, let's say let's teach of structured things. 4, 4, 4, then 2. The students' eyes that dart or drift, hold perhaps, a stream of words to see. Sonnet number 129. Give it a letter: M. A couplet that dissuades from coupling. See then see and see: from now to know. This is what poetry can do. Notebooks flap and cringe at phrases inked in blue and black, that tell. But let me not to minds admit impediment. Let them learn it in an hour.

Oh, but for the letter to be long and winding, river walkways washed by storm and slide. The auditors with skin and hands to warm. Square's breath that steams, each word the winter's illustration. I'd tell them: feel, err. And what. Unearth but here. Leave, but linger. Let's say let's sound aloud with lovers' lips. That nothing proven can be worth the task. Hands that push through doors for skies that spit and drool. 4/4 3/4 2/3. Sustain. One day, a year, to lightning they will ask to sing along. A chapter, every song.