It is your ocean, waves forgotten.
You feel it whistling through you
because you are made of water.
You gather fallen leaves by reaching
your arms over the horizons and scooping,
as if the horizons were the sides of a tub. As
you lift your wind-sparking fingers
the sparks catch fire and grow, scatters
of curled oak horns and feathers
magnifying
what's around like
vaporous spyglass. The
solar yell
is your glamor
because you are
not attached to your place.
