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.
