today (:

Dear readers,

it's been a great weekend!

The poem's not about me, btw, and it was written AFTER class (:

The straight times editor.

Sunday school

Your fingers twirl
around the pen, clarinet-like, and the tune
pipes through your mind.

You stare at the teacher, as
he talks of God and man and how far
the universe stretches, but you don’t
see him – you stare through him;
Your mind records the
words that exit his mouth,
but it does not hear them.
It returns once in awhile
– from wherever it is that minds go to
in the heat of dreams –
to flip the page that has been
rustled by the classroom fan,
or to slip that dancing
strand of hair
back behind the ear.

Far away, in never-never land,
your mind lives where the
melody is,
and the two become one.