O was an island amid islands the bright band of equator
blessed. Islanders watch the wash wash over from an island that is. O gapes
fire on rim and remote range, the underground ovens answering unfazed sun’s
force. O shrinks where ice shelfs drop, flowing back into shape-shifting salt
sea. Glacial pace is a black joke as ancient valleys emerge fast and creek,
after eons of rock scrape. O this great planet we may only perceive from a
geometric point, our flat picture defining our O down to blue atoms in the
sub-structure of galaxies. We call it ours, anyway.
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