When everything you know is like a windlight shifting, is there ever a day to keep the sum of the wind as in the wave and the tree lights bending, to accumulate like the shapes you can never see directly, indirectly, to stow away like the effects of the invisible on the visible, to keep for yourself so much unintended motion, hey sailor,
between you and the wind is a recursive embedding, if storm predictions are less than accurate, if at the loading dock you see a green bag unattended, if you want to be something light, and a gust knocks you over, if retrieving a memory recasts the memory, a piling on for the tongue like the sum of a motor idling, a motor racing, hey there, you, from whoever is this that's speaking, if a bower springs from the beak of the bowerbird, do you put trust in its rigging, if the bird fails to secure a mate, is there a raftline’s instability, as with the abled observing the disabled, as with the male’s pitching and rolling, hey then, yes you, whoever is there amid the dock lines chafing, the channel markers dinging, hey you, why be a stranger, for if trust lies with hope, you can give a wave to the offspring, if one doubt forecasts another doubt, you can get Thomas on it, if every act of language distends the language, you can keep watch lest the tongue be claustrophobic, unless, come on there four bells, is this the wind having an episode, yes having an episode: as when a person stops being polite, that's the shift when you'll know him, if you are attacked while you're sleeping, ahoy the depths you'll be owned by it:
