Nature grew new hearts rude,
and wrapped them around with brightened foam,
a womb to old blood, shelling the sun.
Now we look down from the blemish of Jupiter
to track the dunes of spheres that pursed
out of the ground like dimpled balloons.
Our touch strays on the endless side
for an edge to that eyelid to grasp, hold off,
if blood might rust and form new crusts.