Their bodies touch, casual in the classroom,
fingers brushing thighs under cluttered desks.
Go home and fuck, I’d tell them
if I was high or not in charge. Lust oozes above
my low bark stripping somebody’s words naked.
Their bodies touch in the casual classroom
of nodding heads half-detached, glazing out
into the gray February blah blah blah.
Go home and fuck! I’d tell them
if we were friends. A statue of our founder imposes itself
above dirty snow like twisted black coal, an effigy of me.
Their caustic bodies touch in the classroom. They know
each other. Everything. The floor burns beneath them.
My notes erupt in flames. I taste the ash.
Go home. Fuck you! I’d like to tell them.
It’s not on the syllabus. I’m talking about character today.
Punctuation leads me astray. The boy the girl the ink bleeds.
Their bodies touch. Causality in the classroom.
Go home. Fuck, what can I tell them?
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