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.