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.