My eyes rove over this slow meadow,
 
this tundra, cathedra
 
of sundogs and solar wind,       which stitch
 
my sight with froth,
 
with snow wraiths.       I have forgotten the movement of the ocean. In
 
its place:       a blue tongue rolling down the nave of
 
my brain, licking the idea
 
of ocean into dry ice, into a halo of diamond dust.       Coldest
 
hallucination, particulate sheen, shun
 
my eye.
 
Shut it
 
inside the oyster of your sky.     Let me be
 
your grit, your snowy ache.     Bed me like a pearl.     Lay me
 
in the field of your nacre.