Each container is an emblem
Of rubbery perfection, sealing
Leftovers from the ravenous elements,
Preserving them for tomorrow or the next day,
Depending on a body’s mood.
Say the mood is transferred,
Inside equals outside, the when overlaps
The where. Say the sun slips
Softly behind suburbs,
Anthills spill thin shadows,
Census-takers round-off numbers,
A new vocabulary hums in dusk-colored air.
This poem is about believing in something
Immortal, changeless, forever.
But emblems wane:
Tonight the moon will be
A pinched arc of moonlight overhead,
And as such, unattainable, though we’ll remain
Goal-oriented on the mountains of inconsequence
In the still hours.