A universe rests
on the wrist of night,
no larger than a bead
threaded by time’s thin wire.
It clinks softly
against its neighbours—
a cluster of fireflies
framed in glass,
their wings folded in silence.
You might mistake it
for ornament,
something small enough
to slip between fingers;
yet tilt it in the light
and you’ll see whole galaxies
burning in miniature,
Nebulae tilting blue,
and a scatter of supernovas
Singing their names.
The thread loops on,
uncountable,
an armlet of eternities—
and you,
for a fleeting moment,
the body it encircles.
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