Gas Globes

We are the souls, the will-o’-the-wisps,
The scurf foamed from waves that skirt the depths,
Slight, small weird spray of the world who want

To know it all, to see the sea whole
As a face bent in a sphere, a bead
Of light with a bit from all the light

There is and could be, splayed in the right
Shapes to show a map of that vast whole
For which our spheres are flecks of foamed soul.