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

agitate,

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.