Hours to turn your life into magic,
to animate ashes into passes,
and islands into archipelagic
clusters: fingers that massage the masses:
From a spot of isolation I come
so communal–my turbulence the waves
that rock your babe to sleep, as you become
all that you want to be, all that time craves:
Just look from your landing, and you'll see me
on that isle–no, on that one over there:
the skinny one with no real history
of settlement until I settled there:
That's the life of a loner, I suppose:
One hop, skip, or a dream, and there he goes!

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