Crookes’s Radiometer

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 …