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.