He is the outside of glass, off the spindle of a most athletic wind,

almost transparent, and I put my hand up to him.

Our veins together; the light takes there to here,

the red, amber, fading green,

and I see

that if I had ways to make words do,

they would not do to out do

Ten aims of this tool, rather


and my heart would stand slammed,

like he.


I wait for sleep and sleep to wait

and in-between dream

of white beams to stream my wait,

and then sleep to intervene.


The wind tugs at him, he is overdue,

and says nothing; gone.




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winston plowes

Mon 10th Jan 2011 22:28

Another Classic (naturally) Win X

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Cynthia Buell Thomas

Mon 10th Jan 2011 19:18

'off the spindle of a most athletic wind' in this opening line is one of the most dramatic images I have ever read. This is a very fine poem, worth mulling over and over.

Did you mean us to understand 'outdo'?

I googled this term HIKIKOMORI and found 'extreme social withdrawal'. I did not follow the intricacies of discussion. I wonder what they call bona fide hermits, or self-isolated prophets? You have tackled a very complex subject with great acuity. Is really good poetry teachy-preachy by its very nature? I believe it is, in the sense of sharing an old message in a new way. Even the most esoteric stream of words evokes a response from the reader, and hence an opening for intercommunication, which is, in my opinion, always a form of learning.

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