Gloss of green on a stone--  Cold waterfall, a ripple down the uneven globe of this tiny amphora, this ampoule for perfume scored by a comb in the molten bottle: fountain strands of sea-green jade and sea-light opal in sheaths of fire remelt, re-fuse to new luster in which bubbles shift and drops of vapor, sealed in glaze, at each angle catch light--catch light! That cry-- annihilation made, outbound forever till it hits your eye and ends, a green glow, all you see, extinguished starlight, starlight only. Focused by stone, cleaved, bruted, brilliant-cut. No stone like that exists, before 1600. No world--until us--in chains of glass, hostage to signal: all clearness & purity, fidelity, integrity, traits of the channel, its internal reflection. Objects are answers, unspoken collusions of humans with the earth as it turns, as it culminates in night-skies on Neptune, Earth as it sweeps by, or is swept--it depends where you are--by schools of light, loose, adrift in the empty aisles of the cosmos: this, their care--the artisans--their persistent reverence for error, mis-fit; fabulists of silica, water, what we are, glassware, charcoal, starlight only; forgers of green, translucent stones that are the structure of all question.