Syndrome

Penumbral shade of reason islands him:

the hazy boundaries of his narrow land

embrace the beach, the scrub oak's stubby limb,

advance to tease the apathetic hand.

The curling mist, the subtle fog's low haze

veil eyes accustomed to accommodation

to light and shade of moving night and days,

confusing land and foggy inundation.

Along some path's autonomous direction,

away from actual route and actual wall,

he made his way by secret intellection

obscured and wrapped in thinking like a shawl.

Always he held himself apart from action

in play for common gain or compliment;

his thoughts were walls against the world's attraction,

a metaphysical integument.

Yet he was always kind and quickly moved

to aid or soothe the hurt anonymous heart;

it almost seemed by sympathy he proved

that in the circumstance he had a part.

His patient days of uniform devotion

he tendered on the small accomplishment

of taller lives impetuous emotion;

in each friend lost he knew diminishment.

One day we heard him cry he was alone,

in loneliness divided, separate

in singular house of skin and brittle bone.

He called to us. His tone was desperate.

Yet when we came we found him islanded

and curled within his shadow like a bed.

We spoke, but with a look he named us dead,

addressing words to sea gulls overhead.