Poetry

Crookes’s Radiometer

John Dennison

Hand-blown; how clear things become

pushed near to breaking point, breath

in the hot glob of dust: the bright form

of the skull. I opened my mouthand drew in my breath: a partial
vacuum,

a loosening readiness, raised about a spike,

obsessive pivot round which the vanes hum,

things opting for the flipside, flick!

off the leading edge, the sun’s bobbin

threading on-it winds me up no end,

amen, the utter answerability

of the least …

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