CREATIVE WRITING

The teacher packs her hunches and steers toward erasing every grade ever given. She tells them: bring your everloving hatchets and your holders too for the useless, beautiful remnants. Wax your most golden, least-most needs, and don't forget to arrange, somewhere right about here, some nicely lewd and shipwrecked eyes. Now stand as though the sky

*

Truth of the fact, matter of truth, I don't know what on this naked burned-up prairie. Happened onto some brushtalk, see, flames of marvelous who-knows-how. Administration goofed, I guess, and accidentally greased the sheezy-eyed dreams of those who could only come on over, come on over, helplessly. Right wing, left wing, what kind of form

does fire have I want it. Looser, lighter, way of all their youthfully undulating sorrows, browny borrowed shoes, stories of underwater weather and the lucky, occasional slip.

Dive, preen, doze; I want to make a good

loafer's mind among these businessbrains and numbermumblers. I'd like to warm their every kind of oddness, always around some fire in their mouths in their beachless sleep, which is always alone, always our only

livelong hope.