Strange does fit the recluse,
Dresses up a bit the riddle of it:
The somehow extroverted introvert,
Who, for calm, cavorts from the couch in it.
Far from friendless, he
Unchooses the world’s insanity,
Unfurls his own berber fantasy
On the ceiling of a daydream,
Vanishing into the weaving of it.
The world inside his head
Is bigger than the world apart from it.
His bed is Borealis-Basin-wide,
And, for dream, he’s willingly lost in it
For what seems like days,
Unfolding origami ripples
Underfoot of his racing away
Into Morphean make-believe—
His boyish heart laughingly tossed in it.
His thoughts are inside the inside-out box.
His keys deadbolt the French freedom of it;
And, for range, he’s pardoned to speak rudely,
Pace nudely in it,
Uncork a presumed profundity
Underwritten by Verre de Merlot,
And bloviate with Nobel blues—
Strange thinking, yeah, but less lonely in it.
Poetry: Open Air