One Perfect Bubble

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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.