Shaped on a summer afternoon,
its glistening architecture,
is alive with iridescent motion.
But even if it survives wind
and skims the tips of grass
a pock will blossom,
then another—just air
asserting itself, little holes
spreading across its skin
to undo it into lace
then into spray
as the bubble unbecomes
becoming empty space
till a stream of bright newborns
blow in to take its place.