It’s a wall of nothing, he thinks,
now that he’s curating a show on nothing.
The same kid who sang in the choir,
played with indie-rockers, sits in his apartment
in a conversation with a beer he missed in college.
In the afternoon, light hits his wall, creates a triangle.
He writes about money, love, and Godlessness.
The students come—they have every best intention.
They climb the sides of the state building shouting,
We will run our own university!
They watch La Dolce Vita in their pajamas
and leave neon freezy-pop juice all over the tables.
Meanwhile, she enters in a middle.
It’s long after The Exorcist.
“In a Station” was written in the last century.
Stranger to car design, utilitarian function, she thinks,
Prelude to a Kiss or prelude to this poem.