If it’s 48°C out the asphalt is

                                                            approaching the temperatures

                                                            where egg proteins start to link up,

                                                            so that cracking a million eggs

                                                            on the motorway turns it into

                                                            a river of yellow-white sludge,

                                                            and cars would not risk their tires

                                                            slipping on soft albumen.  The skill is

                                                            finding an exact distance between

                                                            skydancers and string hoppers,

                                                            how Bedouin crossing the desert

                                                            always trace the tops of dunes.

                                                            Forget what you think you know

                                                            about entropy or dark matter;

                                                            the universe longs to be in between

                                                            things.  It lives in the loophole

                                                            that it shoots an arrow through,

                                                            as dust mites live on dust motes,

                                                            measuring a moment in miniature

                                                            that could be a paraselenic linear space

                                                            if only you could both see it and be in it.