There you are on your back sleeping,
looking dead. I now dread the long day
filled with people I no longer care for. I am
your pupil now, you tell me what to study.
Here, there are no rejections, mello roos.
No Amaranths with their clusters of flowers
hiding weeds. No tricky Nicky red-purple
poets that fade more each day. Out of your
pupil I see an atrium as large as a gymnasium
and that is your world, the whole of it. How
I love what you see, the part, the particle of
a partitioned place, one yet in need of reform,
a world where others’ words can yet burn
into you like a branding iron.