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.