At a distance, young voices are whooping,
to which my stately, fostering mother
pays no heed. But as the moon bears
with great heaviness waters to itself,
one tongue reissues for attention.
It is mine. I have come back to win
the National Book Award, but am locked in
the English Department, let me out!
My friends rally round. They were expected to
do this. With refrains. Tunes. Lips.
With brace and bit and biting epigram
they bore the walls, release and welcome me.
At once I wish to share in their spirits,
their fitting wits and sensual nostalgia.
The short lines in my palms seem to lengthen,
and the slapping of their thighs sounds tender.
I have been rescued before by black angels
and merely observed their disappearance, have walked
in the corridor when the one door opened-
and entered, and asked for the moon, and laughed;
have wanted for a hand, a back and a brain,
and have wanted my women to tell me again.
In the second childhood, there are not more children.
In the second semester, the teachers are older.
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