shimmerblue quilled with faint green. Or a cluster of them, holding together: miniature chrysalis of spit almost unseen, balanced on the edge of a grass blade. Faceted, flawed, but more perfect than any chipped synthetic zirconium thing. Do you not love the paradox of tensile surfaces? Globe after globe enclosing each watery world, each ecosystem; contained, but also perennially on the brink of perforation. What would keep there? Flowering groves, a windswept coast. Fields flocked with wheat and cotton or soy. Oyster beds, caves, ports of call. A light- house. The marvel of a rain- drop you could eat like a cake.