cleaning windows is the ‘nth
degree of agony; nothing is
what makes ‘em crystal clear
those hardly novel views that
glass should be in place and
seen to be for safe elucidation
oddly bests living in esoteric
derivations of nonbeing, the
improbability of sheer zero
the presence of a no-smear
invisible shield which equally
repels insect and beast alike
benignly interpolating itself
between this place and that
untamed view of true earth
but somehow I trust cobwebs
more; eclectic hallucinations
vaguely alienated don’t erase
a spider’s autograph, it’s real
proof of existence exactly –
while upbeat debate ain’t
© 12 May 2011, I. D. Carswell
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