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.