the pupil


i'm being (re-) educated to take small steps,
stir small winds
feel that my heart doesn't matter
know my lessons well

(devoirs:)
each night i practice all the ways
i can fold myself up and
disappear --
spine bent, temple to
knee, forehead to shin ,
eyes and mind disconnected so that
the lansdcape reads
unbroken
like an
offset page.

the equations are barely hidden by
chalk lines --

(leçon une:)
ecrire, répéter, apprendre par coeur
ecrire, répéter, apprendre par coeur--

to know is to
jerk arms up-and-down well,
nod with enthusiasm and
flex one's jaw with
the grace of a
gearshift

must i resign myself to this teaching?
pacing these same 5 blocks on cold nights,
dodging shadow hands and potholes --
clutching ink-stained loose leaf,
coughing up chalk dust like steam?

must i resign myself to the knowledge that
if i claw away at all the marble and concrete,
collapse the canon, feel and think --
that if i take my fist to these
walls,
my palm will never
win?

hello.