During His Lectures He Notices
that her back is a straight garden
wall from which the breasts
cascade like clusters of heavy blossoms.
He imagines God's head resting
there on the startling blue of her dress,
God's hand that sweats
and wrinkles what covers her thighs.
His eyes follow her pencil.
How lightly she holds it, how she resists
putting his gray interpretations across
the white expanse of her notebook.
White. White moons in her nails.
White sliding down a sheer stockinged leg.
Her shoe like a narrow
black canoe with a bow:
he will take her across
the lake of his desire some day soon.
He will begin to plead with her on paper:
Without you, he will write,
I am the soul of a rat,
a crimson abnegation.
Without you -- nothing
but a hammer
striking the Pieta, shit
on the head of the Buddha.