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P
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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.