It was stuffy in the classroom.
He put his hand inside his desk,
Feeling for a pencil. It was cool in there,
He let his hand swing aimlessly around.
The space within seemed vast, and when
He reached in further he found
Nothing, could feel no books, no ruler.
His hand floated as if in a bath of shadows,
Airy and refreshing, not at all
The same place that the rest of him was in.

He put both hands in, let them drift
Deeper, this way and that. It was more than empty,
The inside had no sides. His hands
Never reappeared in some unexpected hole.
He lifted the lid quietly a little more. A waft
Of soft air cooled his face, the same
As on summer nights or under leafy trees.

He bent his head down to the gap. He looked inside.
Dark as deep water, deep as a clear night sky.
He smiled. He put his head inside.
“What are you doing?” asked the teacher. But he didn’t hear.
He slid his shoulders in, and then
Before anyone could reach to stop him,
He bent from the waist, kicking his chair back,
And with a muffled cry of pleasure
Dived. For a split second,
As the room filled with fresh air,
We watched his legs slide slowly down into the desk
And disappear. And then the lid fell back,
Shut, with a soft thud.