WHERE IS THE POEM

I was struck with faithin the classroom the windowonto the quadrangle was open the black-board was washed with erased, grayish thoughts someone hadrubbed in fluid ovals Donne’s speaker’s desire woke in a cradle he was a molten baby again my thighs insidea pair of green cargo pants were as firm as twin belugas the professor improvised a linein chalk I would saygarish, controlling was my response rhymetouching itself in an early bush was mine like a hot sword the dew drew away from the plantsbeyond the window into the aira bit dirty a bit dirty then the city below the collegethat knew very much more than I like a man one time laying on the tracks at Park Streetthen pulled off or a man’s tight white jeans pressedagainst me in the packed Green Line car against my thighmy loose, hopeful pants under his controlso he declared with a direct look for a few moremoments until the next…