There is a globe of rainy air clasped in the fingers of a tree outside a balcony. Squadrons of bees cruise through in formation, humming with a cool yellow majesty. Squirrels thrash at branches beyond, spin around in panic at the pale slivers of sky. The tree rustles this secret at the balcony, as if demanding attention.

The earth crawls in place, behind the sky’s back. The sky ignores it, whirls around in all directions, peering out into space. Cities—scuffs fraying on the surface—submit embarrassed to the motion, falling sluggishly forward under shadows and flickers with downcast eyes. Citizens look up appreciatively, write poems.

There is a bubble where water can tumble and be swallowed, where mouth roofs throat. Sometimes wrinkles will shrivel it, twisting the skin like an old balloon. Water shies from the red splits between them, sucks down and away. They dry and tighten.

There were five orbits around me, a cloud of eyes and hands pulsing like a five-sectioned heart. They came to decay, obscure my vision, passed too close, collided. Now one tumbles by occasionally, askew like a comet.

There is blue porcelain that contains white air. It seals itself, steams the air vivid and blue. Dry spaces within soften, loosen, hang fresh and open; pores expel wires, shed them. At the core, I know the living parts of myself. I know myself whole, alone.

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