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,
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.