Orb after orb,

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.