Theory of instruction

The light, and the flower inside it; its flickering,
its gradual fading. Trickle of sand in a glass crucible

correcting itself, spelling out time. Everywhere
there are streets named after saints or dead

dictators— in this way we are reminded every memory
can negotiate its price. Don’t we already have fables

that try to pass for facts? In blue cages on the patio,
children chirp lessons until the curator comes to spread

a grey drop cloth. In college, my art professor
pointed to a slide of St. Theresa, the angel’s lance

poised above the flesh of her breast. Isn’t that how we
look in the throes of falling or flying? I was told

suffering is another name for holy. I was told to distrust
the beautiful flames of pleasure that sing like birds.

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