In the border of her room, a wheel.
Skia leans into its pine burls. When light
twines the mist around spindled branches
all her lonely moments become an epilogue.
She cannot speak through eternity:
black holes stretch bodies
into spun glass.
At this hour, the cloth hushes
in its beauty. Awake, Skia spins
a cloak of sediment to protect her.
Her throat mottles with prints. She captures
oranges, serpentine reeds, roots of willows curled
along the banks, leaves like turned pages.
She sees the landscape forced to an arrangement,
quilted squares, patterns like boxes, like bricks.
There are no squares in nature.
This is how we know we built it.
One whole world—
inside, an apple.