Alas, how is’t with you
 That you do bend your eye on vacancy
  And with the incorporal air do hold discourse?
Clouds, those beautiful fictions, perform tricks
 Before your eyes that just words shouldn’t:
  Cloud, ghost, myth or fiction—all the same.
New condensation forms in the unformed air
 That ethereal, unstructured whiteness of poetry,
  Impossible to write, impossible to read.
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