A mind in solitude may soar. A mind in solitary may sink and stutter trying to connect with itself—and fail. So disjointed, thought rises, then alone, falls in on its self, compressing hope. Pumping desperately forward the mind sees itself reaching yet sweeping back to its lonely start. With each arc the energy wanes. Spirit wrinkles, old before its time and collapses to the core, dark and hopeless. Kept solitary the boy on a swing hangs dead, wound too tight in sheets and no sense. The remaining poems in this volume hew to the same theme—attempting to swing out to touch the world and to glide back in despair. Some reach out and cannot be heard. Some pump hard but only become tangled in their disability. Some swing wildly in both ends of a worm hole and dissociate. And yet others cherish and nurture the thrill of the ride.
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