They say they wander, the conductors of MIT,
Not knowing or caring where they are, those halls
Painted puke green like naval officers’ country,
Minds and hearts reverberant as shells
And as coiled with listening to an inner sea.
Eyes that wind back in the head like reversing films
See parody timed to a broken inner drum
As the diver feet-first tumbles up on his splash,
The blonde redresses clothes that unfolded flesh.
Only the shared sense startles, finds and claims.
They say you can open the dedicated head
And see such symbols as a god might rest
A cycle in, more elegant than a world
Where a child throws a beach stone for the joy of curve
And sees his dream try distance like a bird.
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