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Lit up from within, would their delicate
pastel shades be less distinct,
their dark wire frames less ornamental?

They tilt slightly like aerated planets
swaying on invisible threads
in a light that is not their own.

So many of them! And like bubbles
they seem to lift; but touching they
never burst or jostle.

We see them through glass, brightly:
elated, autotelic as joy,
and detached from ourselves.


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