Subterranean School

GEORGE SELI

 

 

“I’m still kind of green at this,”

I say as I stumble in sneakers

through tunnels lined with lockers

of grayish ore—a dull beetle,

stumped by rock.

 

Suddenly I turn right. I turn correct

and am struck by the crystalline light of the classroom.

Here webbed wings of whispers

                                                              bat

 

unheard about a professor’s head,

oblong and smooth—

stratified with knowledge.

 

Here I must sit until I learn

the equation that is the echo,

its infinite variations—

crumple my complaints in dusty fists

as lessons project overhead

in filmy hieroglyphs.

 

Here I share the dream of getting high

upon a measureless green

carried by whims

and winds that defy the gravity of theory.

 

A dean like a djinn will say,

“Let us take a moment

to look down at our shadows

and remember how we were.”

Mortar boards fly like felty birds,

testing air.

 

There is nothing opaque there,

nothing hard or heavy—

“None of the below.”

 

The answer drips singularly

from many dark cranial roofs

peculiarly formed in rows.