who has had a class in Douglass
Hall will say the same thing:
it smells like maple syrup
and quite possibly, dead rats.

Yesterday was the clock
behind us, sometimes
hesitating to end class.

Today, I shove my mouth
with cashews, sit
on the bench facing the fountain.

Wisteria droops death-fringed
leaves, which fall as doilies
for soda-stained cement.
The fountain, actually
a broken sprinkler

used as a fountain head,
spreads chlorinated air.
A new head
was not in the budget
this semester.

What’s one cashew, I thought:
A nip on my finger and a trip
to the health center.

A wind
(cooling skin; shirtless man’s
back-hairs move like wheat)
stirs: an up-
rising. Leaves.