Through a Glass Old glass was spun in circles, and we’ve fathomed only after centuries the blower’s thickened edges blur a blued and pocked window pane; but Pilkington’s float-glass hasn’t mystery, just industrial perfection uniform, mundane. So when I glance out at new-fledged chicks, grappling for balance in the creamy hawthorn hedge, I don’t lose them through a misted whorl storm but from a quick prod by time. Outside, though, in raw blossom scent, an ancient rite awaits me still, in the feathery scruffs’ edgy session, of dust ruffles tail-tips, apprentice trills. This stolen…
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