As we linger on the back patio,
I read you headlines from my phone.
You roll your eyes. You say you believe
in systems, the strength of molecules,

of self-correcting patterns. You believe
nature learns. You say you don’t see
disaster in subtle changes in temperature
and attitudes. But all I can think about

is the rust colored bruise left behind
on the porch swing from a mosquito
you swatted between words. A smear.
I think about the same color of molten glass,

how balls of potential emerge from a furnace
soft, yielding to the glassblower’s celestial breath.
An orb expands, takes shape at the end
of the blowpipe, and the glassblower

turns his tool in his hands. I wonder if he
considers the weight of fragile gifts,
or molecules, or systems, or the hands
that will hold his creation once it cools.