Graduate School

Tomorrow I fly to NY where the street numbers are upwards of “Route 2.” I slipped into a whole in the space/time continuum: Plainfield, Vermont. Debbie said, “We are not in a bubble.” She saw a pick up packed with men throwing bottles and phrases from the car window, tires flicking gravel against wood dorms. “But not at me.” I said, “Just in general.” She nodded but said no to the passed joint, so Steve and I smoked it ourselves, and then three more on the porch of the dorm with the underwater mural where the octopus has nine arms. Google-eyed and red with one extra tentacle. John said, “It’s his tail.” I took a picture of the painting. And fires just logs without flames, the smoke silhouette a bustled apparition. And the building where the Lorax lives, up three stories to a door skinny like the trunks of surrounding trees. And hanging flowers, petals pink string, called Bleeding Hearts.

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