Orb after orb,


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?

                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.

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