Turn it over and look up
into the sphere of heaven.
The tracery is lucent,
light seeping through to write,
white-ink your face, upturned.
Swing it below
and it's a cradle of blue water,
the sea, a womb.
A mixing bowl
for Babylonian gods.
Here, they whirl up the cosmos.
Pick it up and your hands
form a pedestal,
and all who drink
contain the arcs
of body and the universe —
and between them,
no imaginable tear or distance.