By | 1 July 2009

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.

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