On bearings that are spheres or planets like this one

Mostly spherical, although not highly polished

The races are wholly different, perhaps not hard enough

To withstand abrasion and friction of even slow turning

 

There are mountain ranges and deep trenches

Filled with salt water, corroding and coruscating

At the same time, take your pick, but we still rotate

 

Time slides by, a lubricant that should prevent spalling

And chatter, a galling culpability suffused with alloys

Like various toys chosen at random by children

And we are the engineers to make it assemble and spin.