I remember clearly
the quiet serenity of the back desk,
the constant drone of the prof's voice
contrasting with the flow of your
hair and the white cotton blouse
by which I remember you. Then,
sidling into my group of friends
where I would imagine to forget.
Seeing your yeux vivants enraptured by a high rise jazz solo, your
quickness and flame contrasting with my own dullness. I left as sick,
and I dreamt that night/

I awake to find you
next to me,
convivial,
and myself,
quietly genial.
And so, I wonder:
would I have to have to tear myselft apart
to find my passion
in serenity?