Clouds Hopkins across the blue page.

Tufts with Oppenheimer mushrooms

and vapour's glyphs are torn and tossed.
A breeze pushes down the Celsius,

gentle on my arm, like breath that stirs

a lash, hardly at all. And Derrida's graffiti
asks: when our eyes touch, is it night

or is it day? Lens to lens.

Lashes to lashes. Sky's shades
draw comfort over meaning's

eye, another thousand works

undetonated still.