He was an island in a river of sound.
The phone rang and he did not
answer. His stillness radiated
outward. He sent forth a kind
of light. He still ate, he walked.
His body grew rough bark like
an old tree. Turning in the wind,
it sang like bright wire. Snow
centered him. Life slowed
and slowed. Each breath was
a word on the page. He coursed
the veins of the world.
Blood was his highway.