You know how certain singers turn words
into sounds, keeping only the tune?
Clean-shaven, hatless, he waited
for the opposite to happen.
God knows English, he wanted to say,
wanted to leave the old books
open to the same page, each line
read aloud for him to repeat, each syllable.
Easy to let a beard claim your face
like a sign of knowledge, easy
to wait for the afternoon to end.
In the study hall’s thin electric light,
he listened to them scat sing,
listened to the commentary hooked
and curved as if released from sense,
and wondered how long it takes
to learn that sound,
how long to hear whatever it means.
ISSUE: Spring 2012