Slouching, a god's favourite ghost,

you like it here. Nestled on the contours

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of the Mataura's edge,

you form a curl and relax into the easterly.

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It suits you to take some time out

in migrant dunes. They're always shifting,

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like you, communal fragment.

Is it afternoon yet? How could you know?

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A hedonist is lit up by her inclination

to cut loose from any cliches rich in birdsong.

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In the heather, it's a cinch

to move increments of snowdrift

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and trace creatures all around your head.

You'll line a myth.

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As you trial this glen, the leaves make up

a Babylon for one instant. The moment

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seems to dilate in your head until it defines

a kind of forever. Your smile will keep.

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It may endure as an add-on to your features.

You'll archive it in a heap of gestures–

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customs to make a rested soul

at one with cumuli gathering.