One Perfect Bubble

/ /

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.