Listening: Writing is listening
the poet understood from the edge of the room by the window
where she noticed she was listening now
across the space of student heads
a cube of air made thick
rubbery, almost
by trajectories of thought criss-crossing
head to wall, wall to floor
handball tracers folding back upon themselves
never gaining entry
skulls and ceiling unaware
reflecting.


Observe, the teacher speaks.
Heads bob like fisher floats
ordered chaos ripples scrapes on paper
front to back, past her window.


She writes nothing,
does not move.
Listens deeply now to
Thought obstructs observation
while eager faces, tilted backs of necks
hear nothing
thinking,
tracers surging blindly
through her silence.