from black to pale
robin's egg blue,
every new
morning, you
slide into view
with the inevitable gravitas
of the next boxcar
at the crossing.
And so enmeshed,
so lost
are we dare who behold you
within the ageless
center of your
unblemished perimeter,
that we never even stop
to wonder
what it is you're made of—
but it must be one
single, solid, and exquisitely
machined material
so easeful and
ubiquitous
that it cannot be mishandled;
it can never be
dropped, melted, frozen,
thrown away—
and it's always
the same (although
continually replaced)—
and what's more,
it must be
ageless;
for never does it seem to
tarnish, achromatize,
or rust. And of course,
it could never be
shaken off
or lost,
tallied-up
and parceled-out, rejected
or explained.
