Perception Makes Us Worthy

at one desk sits a lamp with a bright bulb;
at another, in the back of the class, stands an image;
pure hunger for fine arts, surreal pictures;
no exit. at no time. undressed. pure pain.

I have thought on the matter, alarming
to me; the pursuit made in some, to rise,
soaring outer planets, decided and vexed
over becoming great souls, by rawer rivers.

the turquoise has begun to hurt. the soul
has passed sorrow, right at melancholy;
the image stands, looking clean, fretting the
observation. I have felt awareness—

often to an intrusion: I want awareness—
case by study, person to person, so
un-casual, maybe vague, how we act
in linear motion, or relit pain.

at one desk sits a dream, at another a scar,
at another a woman, at another a professor—
no perfume, no earrings, no stockings or socks,
just a blouse, beige khakis, and flats.  

her hands are folded in front. she moves her
thumbs, in circular motion, it bothers me—
the air, the presumption, the immediacy—
I notice she isn’t interested, not much.

the story hasn’t a point, not much. not
much at all. just observation. I must learn
more. unsee. maybe this is the point.
maybe it never matters, aside from fitting.

maybe beauty is enough, behavior
sacrificed, passed to gods, and given
back. in wanting the worthy, I have lost
the mandatory, the hunch, of being worthy.