The nearest available tenured professor
is many, many miles away.
Our directions therefore are clear,
printed on laminated paper no less.
Proceed through the Plethoric Forest,
crossing very fat spring streams.
Oh joy, the forever singing
poverty is my duty, supply-carrying
sherpa bearer is willing to die for me.
Guilt is my grandeur,
not the Purple Desert Mountains
that point skyward like young tits.
A flat-roofed house is just now discernible
although smaller than planned.
The morning is cool.
Smoke rises from a chimney—
must be burning dilettante hearts.