As I hold no oceans, I seek.
My body belies its blue shallows and hollows.
My shapes similar to sand dunes ripple.
Landscape artists use postcards
when confined, deploy windows
in rainy weather. Like them,
I keep a false measure.
I skirt you.
You have a blue mountain or two,
a buried forest. Missile silos, if any,
You become increasingly real. You walk
into slides of my region,
a new screen.