— for LaMonte
An ear bud without music
 
expertly hangs from his collar like a safety line

for closing down the world.

This body, he works so hard to make invisible —

this body, he cannot make invincible —

walks into College English, his head held

towards the floor. Seventeen. He picks the space apart
from classmates. He’s a window, he’s a door —

his golden eye telescopes, examines the air above —

a third eye with visions he will one day learn

to steer: pathway to a Shakespearean atmosphere.

He argues with himself, his professor, in the arc

of a world not yet understood.

He writes 100 sonnets but shows no one. 

    Susan Rich is our poet in residence for May. 


    Previously: Present Tense: Seattle.