She is delighted afresh

every dawn, to unlid

perfect nothing. That sphere

which extends from the blue

beneath her lashes

clear out to the horizons

of the detail-balloon

that contains all the air.

Blues she sang for years

through colour washes

are gone with the thickening

glasses that narrowed reading

and blind-girl craft work,

the contacts that sucked, bleeding.

Since technology got up

off a Red conveyor,

razored an aqueous ring

and, lasing a layer,

skimmed all that history

off her inner sky,

side clouds have vanished.