Where new writing finds its voice

Nude I

Ross Sutherland

Our architect is famed for identical buildings:
The School of Broken Necks in Toronto,
The Yahtzee Institute in Bethlehem,
One bleached white, the other grey,
Ours famously fluctuating between the two,
With hockey teams slamming their ochre girlfriends against its dim corridors,
Its basements humming with password-protected short stories.
Young minds so deep inside the library that the very act of standing up
would be like unplugging the lake; 
with all earthly knowledge rushing out through the hole they’d left behind.

But if legend is correct
and the higher functions of a university 
are built around an ancient reptilian brain
Then surely this is it— a closed burger van, 
chronicling the evening’s takings.
The last member of an improv group
Selecting Iron Maiden for the journey home.
Trainee nurses, swinging their arms
under the sepia of the streetlights; 
the hold music of the sky.