As I run a finger

Through the air,

I make wind

Where no one cares.

When I wave a palm

To the sky,

I make a friend

That often replies

With such frightening clarity

That I feel somewhat weakened.

And if this world

Is seventy percent water

And thirty land,

The oxygen then

Must be buried in the sand.

The fractionless air

That catches a stare from my greediest hand

Is trapped in a knuckled embrace

So that I may later stuff my face

When in need of a breath.

Fingered landscapes throughout the wind -

Where I draw my own maps and sing

Of all the things

Existing perpendicular to the ground we're in.

That 0 %

That no one looks at

Seems divisible

By nothing.

But you see, it's really there.

It's just... invisible.

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