Through a lace curtain are a thousand cells
of blue, what is infinite parsed gravely
as an English lesson finished to save
time in science class—DNA of jelly
fish, bean-shaped mitochondrion. I can tell
myself after twenty-odd years
it’s the powerhouse of the cell. Here
at my window, lace’s shadows spilling
across my hands on the white table,
still are papers with words on them, sun
drowned, surrounding me, made-up
lessons. Out there, the sky’s undone
every day, pouring itself away
in a lush absence of speculation.