You move on me, not like a mirror,
but like daylight.
A dying man’s life was really a day,
one long day of life:
watch the sky open, watch the sky close.
This cloudscape belongs above Montana.
You step in me, not like mud,
but like river:
unlike the cat chase of Mohenjo-Daro,
unlike the Martian meteorites.
The turquoise from the jewelry-makers of God
I take from your eyes
and hold onto the colors of day.
There: life is frozen.
O Antarctica, only you have beaten time,
the foreign-exchange students
from the mermaid-lands
have told me.
I love you, football, tender, tender.
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