Welds.

For Jamie 5-8-98 At last we know the perfect shape, the sphere Is bounded by the nutshells of the skull. And you, so eloquent when you were here Are mute as death now, Yorick-like, and dull. Your voice curtailed, imagination botched Your vision chopped, and skteches balled and scotched. Tell me: Icosohedronically, Are they closing spheres, hunkering, locked Or cracking chrysalises, budding metal? The welds have held, in tension chemically But equal panels burst unequally. At last we know this perfect shape, the sphere, So eloquently rent when you were here.