the girl sat in her english class
and watched the sky flatten itself against the university window,
like even the clouds are desperate to get in
and learn critical theory. she pulls her sweater over her fingers
and silently sulkily puts an earbud in
so she can listen to japanese indie and feel like
a living aesthetic, or maybe just a girl
living. and she remembers lying in the autumn grass
outside the university, back home, in the west,
and reading
The Portrait of An Artist As a Young Man
and it was still a contrived image, of a girl with curly hair
reading classics alone, so pleased
with herself, but somehow thinking of it makes her want
to cry, because if that time
was anything,
it was innocence.
the last pavilion 