Factoids
Beneath the earth’s crust are giant diamonds
Blue, they think, the size of a human brain
But nobody’s gone past eight miles below
Or less than ten percent of that layer
On the way to the mantle—where they are
Presumably, these rocks that would thrill us
Or not at all, or maybe for a day
Though, unlikely we’ll ever get to them
But the factoid has already been mined
It’s been cut to perfection and polished
And is being mounted onto a sonnet.
And what could be cheaper than a sonnet?
Maybe gift paper blowing in the wind
A dead butterfly swirling in a pond.
