brick and cement, always warm too quickly
cool too softly
before the class was the conversation
of luck trying to find us
when we so desperately master the art of dissolving
before me, another woman,
speaks of students, schools and studies
makes me think of times I spent wandering hallways
before the welcome, a lesson
about annotation: how we explain
the sources of a river's water
before the end of class he tells me
Jerusalem is like a second home to me
I spend much of the summer in a street I cannot now recall its name now
he's blue-eyed and tall. I tell him it will be West,
because the Eastern part had its name written
he's blue-eyed and tall. I tell him it will be West,
because the Eastern part had its name written
in people's palms
before reading, more waiting,
for the seats to arrange themselves
the eyes to stop the staring
before the end I know
the question because I have figured out
how the answer falls flat onto me
before departure,
we walk the campus, before the last building,
she turns to me, says: did you know Carl Sandburg stayed here?
I didn't I say.
Photo credits: my photograph, copyrights mine.
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