Like some Kepler of the sands
you watch that dead, golden dust --
try to find its curve
-- given orbit by some breeze,
dry, weary,
wandering for the Sea it lost,
exhaled over its white and cobalt beaches
when the year was young --
addled and bleached beneath the sun
you dream: one grain drawing perfect circles,
world to itself; the gleam of its countries,
its bannered towers beneath the sun.
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