Monday, February 12, 2018

LON LON MILK

Empty vessel, proud
rare container, glistening capturer

of all that which
countably itches and wriggles

and of many mercurial
mass nouns, which can't—

inviting us tongueless
to fill it with our coldest

whitest thoughts—daring us
to cover

and squirrel away
pure universal

energy somewhere
personal, somehow

for later,
capped tight, and quiet

in curved glass—blessed
and sacred are you

for holding back, for giving us
just a little space,

for entreating, with neither
any menace

nor urgency, to act—but not necessarily
until we grow tired

and sick
of our main quests—or really

ever, unless
we feel like it.

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