#83

Learn to love delay. On floors, or desks, or phones that hum and buzz. Traveille. A pun. Charles remembers. The added coat hook. "A stake in the heart of professionalism." Together, sound incorporated. Not substance, but relation. Theory, no: sensation. To my left Francois, who rambles master-ly. And on my right, soft Paige, who notes on unlined paper. Listen to Margreta: "Comedies don't end in death." The Latin root of passive.

In the mailroom, my name has moved. And nothing to receive. Oh, one's amusement, private. Is the artist ever hailed? A dab of paint they hear as red on white, but why? Ideas in the interim. Forget them. Stephen writes, "They putter on and study truth, / but never mess their hands with art." Names and aliases. Twins in image, deed. Across the table, a Greg in blonde and youth, who spots me. Fledge. Our ears in imitation tremble towards who's called. And David, cool in black with cigarette, a different David from who comes. The Latin root of passion.

Oh, listen to the stereo. A song by Korgis, Beck. The sun through windows, bright reflection in the windows cross the street. All days are nights to see till I see thee. That doubling through a space of hours. I wash my hair, I shave the stubble from my face. It will grow again. And tongues that touch and treasure: we will call their language silence. All will sound it in my classroom. And shuffle, that's the way. The Latin root of patience.