In front of the classroom of my dreams
with nothing to talk about, my mouth
swings open like a door in a mountain,
snow or rocks or dirt taking a dramatic
swan dive into a pool of secrets. The
substance is immaterial; our fascination
is with the space that’s left, the nothing
at the edge of our shoelaces, the infinite
luckiness that it didn’t strike us,
that we are still standing in front of classrooms
filled with multitudes, that we still have
something to say, that only a few have fallen
into sinkholes, that we have not yet
dropped out.