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For our being
together in school,

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I dared to bring a
couple of school poems.

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"A Gesture Toward an
Unsound Renaissance."

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There was the slow
girl in art class,

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less able to say
where our lessons led.

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We learned so fast, she
could not follow us.

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But at the door, each
day, I looked back

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at her rich distress,
knowing almost enough

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to find a better art
inside the lesson.

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And then, late at night, when
the whole town was alone,

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the current below the
rumbly bridge at Main Street

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would go an extra swirl and
gurgle once by the pilings.

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And at my desk at home or when
our house opened above my bed

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toward the stars, I would
hear that one, intended,

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lonely sound, the
signature of the day,

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the ratchet of time taking
me toward here, now.

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And this looked back through
that door that always closes.

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