A teacher’s cupboard,
My thumbs whiten in compression,
Thumbed textbooks,
Must and dust and fusty thoughts,
Footsteps pause in darkened halls,
Amidst the smell of linoleum cleaners and sneakers.
I hear voices call, plaintive and clear;
Echoing off displays,
Reaching under doorways.
They promise forgiveness,
Offer exoneration and redemption.
Yet I know my sins,
Know myself,
So I bite my tongue and hide.


We stopped by a field.
The echoes of our opinions outlast the engine’s.
Silence slips in stealing the sounds.
I stare out the side:
Straw stubble ploughed,
Furrows leading away,
Linear perspective,
A distant horizon.
“What’s the point?” I nearly say,
But I hold my breath,