In the Dorm Room before Lunch
The autumn sky through the screen,
Above the leaves of changing trees,
Peers down on ground so unchanging it
Is unnervingly flat.
But you are acquainted with Indiana
And you know poems. You've heard this.
Months and months, two to be exact, I've looked out
From this window, rustling
From the heart of the wind
a breeze plays with the leaves,
the mystery, not the movement,
the unmistakable sign of love.
Seeing that,
I want to tell you:
The natural in poems is always beauty
in the flora and the fauna, the footprints of the maker
in the world. What I see is 12:30.
The corner the faceless mirror into which I stare
agreeing with the siren screaming, "You're late for class,"
It is not that simple.
It never was.
Saying that,
It feels as though I've been here
always. Seated in this space of mind and matter, I am restless
And redundant: There's no place like home
There's no place like home.
There's no place like home.
It is not that simple.
It never was.