Glazing the amazing hills with the dust
from purple spores rising high out of winter's core,
the broadbrush, and brooding, bands
of solid pigment patterns rise high
due to the stretch of distance,
which is shorter now as I look than it ever has seemed before
like the underbelly of a spaceship passing too close to miss.
The air is the sea and I have found the bottom,
a floating lagoon, purple, with greens and silent blue shadows above me.
The distances are infinite in every direction,
it does not hinge upon the way I decide to look,
and my eyes take in all that they can.
They are hungry for the vision they will never starve for again.
Don't be a mouse, be a lion
