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The misty breath of winter
sets snowclouds blossoming
into Rorshach imaginings,

Bordered and framed,
all circuits shorted,
everything is connected

to that distant point
we can not see,
hobos that we are

in the world of understanding
this earth, not to mention
the troposphere

where cirrus are born
and, apparently
where your mind roams

when 
I speak to you
of lowlier concerns.

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