The bubble shuddering above my hand
Mirrors, distorted on its skin, the world
Dark pines bend inward on the sphere, and stars
Bunch tightly in an arc across the curved
Diminished night, lit by an oval moon
It hits my hand, bounces, and in midbounce --
A graininess. The sphere dissolves. Thin drops
Quiver in air, then fall across my palm
The small night flies into the larger night
Where sweep from star to star seems firmly spaced
One sun behind the next, a billion miles
From where I stand, my palm damp with the world
I held, however small or misshaped, on my hand