In the classroom there were rows of faces,
And one of them was hers; I never tire
Of looking at her face—
The heart of my love, and my love’s disgrace
Is the desire to see her face—
To me she is a god; iconography
Haunts me and teases me;
Is this why my poetry is crazy?
I hope you like my poem,
But this one’s really odd.
My excuse? I fell in love with a living god.
Is my attraction to her really so odd?
Especially if it gleams inside the shadows
We associate with dreams and the higher God?
She is a somber example of how the human race
Can be teasingly god-like.
When I go about, lost, in a dream, hoping to meet her face,
I wonder why, she, who works,
Was also in school? How does a dream work?
I was in the classroom, but the rows
Blocked her; no dream really knows;
I don’t think history knows
The reason I couldn’t see her face.
This simple fact is my utter disgrace.
I was always quiet around her.
She had passages she knew.
Now in the dream
I am confused and shy, trying to catch her eye.
Do I need to explain?
Do we need this poem?
Isn’t this enough? My dream? My pain?