The Bubble of Nights

As I sunned by the river, a bubble floated past. It was a little bigger than a hand, black inside and contracting like a stomach or heart. Its blackness was that of compacted time, accumulated night sky–the full distance within. Mirrors and rainbows swam its thin skin.

I knew it held about thirty to fifty nights of someone’s.

I fanned beside and above it to lift it, spun it almost to a stop. How it wobbled and posed
as if under a strobe . . . until . . .

–!

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