A wedding ring is a long garment, wrapped with a maypole. The maypole, reckless, known to snag, winds to itself filaments dotted by dust motes of all the sizes. Once wound, they describe the vortex wrung when the maypole swings its hips. First a slow eighth turn to the left. Then a quick turn and a half to the right. Within, the ring, privy to the lurch of twelve billion tugs of war lost, casts about for escape. It rides up: its best hope is axial.

In length, a wedding ring is a tube, a wormhole entreaty, beginning in the germ layer and buried along the shoulder, meandering among mountains, until lost in the glare. The road crew rests, dressed in bright orange and tar, where the windpipe is bared for inspection. To them, it is an unearthed brickbat, archeological ordnance, but for duty, ripe for the haul.