Sir Professor, Sir Doktor, Something big has stopped, it's intolerable. I wish it were a hollow hourglass. I could grasp it, reverse it, Turn it upside down, Set its measure running again. Because when this something Stops, I am a page torn out, A disappearance. And when it begins again I'm rewritten. I'm a sheaf of furious notes. Dear Mentor, Take heart, I am learning. Dear Mentor, it's here, You are teaching. I am the proof, the flattery, And you a genre, like stars. When I leave, when I leave, It will be for somewhere good And far from the voice Of tutelage, the touch. Scars On my papery skin, I know. You know Too, the irony hounds me. My mind is rounding over and over Our flat windy world, Seeing myself at slightly past Forty, talking At rows of shifting knees And one open, naive Face, the bloom Of gullibility, I'll pluck it.
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Warren Wedin firstname.lastname@example.org