The beach;
its job is to hold the sand
as it waits
the water, softly licks at its
grainy boots.

It wishes not to be
transparent.

In a line
you'll wait, I swear
Infinitely small, the objects around
and the ideas with sounds

everywhere around
the world in a cylinder
all totally endless and such
I reckon it's so
with hands to the floors

There's a world on that surface
bigger in a small way that makes sense
particle hills and,
puddle oceans
where you can tire and drown

Wait and see
that line you're in
it's infinite
and endless

There is a way up North,
like no other,
where to the South
is like nothing of thought.

The breath of a mother-nature
heaves an infinite cloudy sigh
that puts mean structures
to rest with dogs.

For, it's only on this equipotential surface,
that one can see forever far,
and endless abyss.

The southern star, she makes light of this;
things we all don't see,
otherwise