The Classroom

THE CLASSROOM

There is always time
for the black spider
to squat and spin
a soft sticky silken web
that catches flies
and other things,
or to eat
its mate;
for the regal tiger
to be hunted, slain, stripped,
and stuffed, or
flattened into someone's rug,
and given glass eyes
that can see no more;
for the fat frog
to bathe in the mud
and fill the night
with basso profundo serenades;
for the energetic monkey
to dance wildly
on the end of its chain,
while holding out
its begging cup;
for driftwood to pile up
dead white
and bleached on a beach,
stacked
like Atlas pick-up-sticks;
for a stamp to be licked
and slapped
on a letter
to be sent to Montana;
for an artist's brush
to spin circles
within circles,
overlapping lines
within lines,
illustrating
what is perceived,
or what is dreamed of;
for an address book
with frayed edges
to be filled
with colorful names,
complete with the crossed-out ones
who have fled
the bosom
of this plane;
for a silver-coated mirror
to reflect
what is perceived,
or what is
dreamed of;
for a sulper-tipped wooden match
to be lit,
bursting the shadow places
bright and naked,
bathed in fire,
or its reflection;
for a goose quill
to be dipped
in blood
so that it may write
all the unspeakable things,
all the unscrupulous things,
all the wonderous things,
and the things unseen,
and only felt;
for a mortal man
to live
to learn
to love.


Glenn Buttkus 1965