You do not know
my face in a crowd
like wax dripped
over bronze
only an impression.
A talking candle
that may brighten your face
but tells you nothing
from inside.
I need the warmth
of the individual
to melt cuticle
and bare metal.
The year of the poem is finished, now it is the year for the protocol! Read about the misadventures of a plant scientist trying to make sense of photorespiration one mutant at a time.
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