that student has a set of wings,
translucent, buzzing, flimsy, like burnt sugar,
they smell of honey's sweetness.
Yet they're bitter like Garfunkel's failures,
because this building is not a beehive,
she's rather more a concrete castle.
But one fucked up, not one majestic.
We're trapped because the printers buzz,
while Arjuna approaches awakening.
The crumbling plaster.
Enlightenment.
Our progress is the man in quicksand,
he devours books and atlases
while Déscartes sautés encyclopedias
that the workerbees will someday eat
in a morbid feast of frantic serenity.
All fragile wings must become mouths.
La rue de victoire, ce n'est pas vrai.
We're paved by the labor of lesser wings,
clinging to the catacombs of this library.
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