It was right
that we were oblivious
to the 2D prophesy of blue and white
hands, sinks, and water drops laminated
to doors that I opened
for opening’s sake —
how strange to study
a sign on Blue 2 as we veered
towards the start of 7,000 words,
towards the ground floor
for coffee, to read
each other more intently
than a clumsy illustration,
or any book for that matter.
It was right
that those signs meant nothing,
that we were not attending
a funeral for what occurred on orange 3,
or in a group study room we claimed
with no booking. Was this work?
Or were these the warmest minutes
to date? I ask this now
because now
it is right
that what I recount is safe
from what is now;
shoulders nestling,
collectively hunched,
shelves of faces
unknowingly bidding farewell.
Bea Bacon is an English Literature and American Studies graduate from the university, originally from Bristol. She’s recently been accepted onto the prestigious MFA Poetry Programme at New York University. One of our most talented recent alumni, you can find more of her work over at http://beabacon14.wixsite.com, or @biliograbea on instagram.
