If maybe these white clumpy clouds
are my hair I still have a chance
of avoiding late pattern balding
which makes the sky my brain
darkness seen through light
construed as blue
the glory of my brain
I see now has been outsourced
to those fixed stars at the edges
where the real thinking gets done
then translated down the line
through endless ages
felt as some desire
with less and less cogency
less and less style
until finally I move my hand
or yours reaches mine.
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