This is Not a Post Consisting of Just a Poem

Re-reading Gatsby the Great. Will muse/extrapolate at some point. Blog, I am so sorry. I do not deserve your unconditional love.

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And now, the poem!

Beautiful

I am beauty full from this youth of mine.

Date for lunch, then I pass through the quad, 

its grass, to watch wind tempt the tips of trees

while the sun refuses to kiss the grass. 

Sets of corduroy jackets and beards smoke a hookah, 

and the prettiest girl shares a puff with me 

because September is a generous month.

I leave as the stars strut the sky 

in the early morning. I become hyperaware:

my collared shirt is as smooth as a whetstone.

Then we pass, she asks for a light,

we turn off the lights...experience the beautiful

blindness, the steaming rivers of chemistry

until next day conversations,

questions (1, 2, 3...) arrive like an awkward breakfast

until I'm alone and numberless again

stomping hours later on a giant sundial tucked 

somewhere between my dormitory 

and the interstate, I look up. 

The sun lifts her hands from the stone's shoulder,

oh there is ease before the twilight;

she winks as her beauty falls.