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The glass blower
sets the vase high on a shelf,
unable to burn her creation,
one small bubble, perfectly imperfect,
marring the design
She returns to that tiny burr,
wonders what world she rendered—
fine and wild and hidden—
what matter she molded
but could not control
Inside the crystal sphere
in an identical wooden chamber
sits a glass blower,
completing a pretty vase
with a small imperfection
She kisses her vase lovingly
and smashes it to the ground,
returning the shards to flame
from which she begins to fashion
a perfect vase anew.