WEBVTT

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I feel like I'm just driving
along at a steady clip,

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and I should slow
down a little bit.

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But I can't think
of good stories.

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However, I can give
you some explanations

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for the next problem, that
should slow things down.

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This is a poem called "A
Friend Slipping Away."

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And it mentions a picture
that some of you may know.

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It's a woodcut by
Hokusai called Red Fuji.

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Hokusai is the one that did,
however many views of it

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is, however many views
it is of Mount Fuji.

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And Red Fuji is one of
the more famous ones.

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Big, red-colored Fuji
right in the middle of it.

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A little clouds
going across the top.

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In fact, he described the clouds
as a word here called windrows.

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I don't know if you
know what windrows are.

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They are long, sometimes if you
do old fashioned hay-cutting,

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you cut, you mow the
hay, and then you

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rake it into long piles for it
to dry a little bit before you

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start to make it into piles.

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And then the piles can be
pitched onto a flatbed.

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And the long things are
sometimes called windrows.

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That's all the
information that you need.

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"A Friend Slipping Away."

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It must be evening there.

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The sky full of clouds like
those in Hokusai's Red Fuji.

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Windrows drawn by an
accomplished hand.

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By now, he must be steering,
bleary-eyed and dull.

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The infant making for his lap,
and the trail of drool gleaming

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like a snail's.

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Something's hushed
about this scene

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in which a wife
sniffs meat and slices

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peppers into neat strips.

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The rows like three women who
stride toward the white corner

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of the screen.

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Called to, the man
lifts his head.

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And perhaps, a memory sprouts
white hairs or from a file

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in which the past is kept some
cruelty of Father's lights

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like a fly on his plate.

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He slides again.

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Not sideways like the clouds
gravity no longer tugs.

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But tired, through
the nets of deception,

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through himself and the
white bodies of his loves.

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The arms of friendship,
even his own child's need.

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Trees watch him.

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Beautiful and tragic,
because of nature's greed

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for the vaguely human.

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Because men must die.

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The clouds draw gauze
around his breathing.

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Each place he travels to, the
sand slips open to receive him,

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like a child refusing to
believe, cupping his hands,

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swallowing air.

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Someone keeps calling.