Click, point the telephone down. Orientation,
east to the pier. Sipping a beer, unable to steer
the clear sphere. Endlessly revolving, no-one can capture
here. Lush, the space enclosed. Attempting results
in fleeting. Forcing a ripple, popped like a cripple.
Cascading brown and green mountains. Creation here.
Light reflected from within. A mirror tracing the maze–
Swerving and turning. In awe it rises, until sunk invisible.
Form here, now– is an imperfect sphere. A soundless cheer.