Like the back of a gull

Placed tactically

Against the wind

Locked into a turn

That would shame

Any human aviator

The leaves in my mind

Strive to turn a slight more

Towards perfection

In their brief tumble

From Mother Asterisk

The tree of conception

The breeder of all

Interesting flicks of the tongue

They waft on currents

Of oxygen

Pure form life

To breathe structure

Into a reply

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