The Past Is Always With Us, Part 764

The Past Is Always With Us, Part 764

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The Box

It is a box that is not supposed to shift.
The sides are straight. They shouldn’t be
pushed out or bent.  It is yours.
You need to belong there. Belong to it!

But when they made you,
you were liquid, a jelly that seeps,
creeps into corners, soaks into cardboard walls.
Your wants bubble.
Your mind wriggles like a caught fish.
You slip out of my box, a bar of soap in wet hands.
I can’t keep you.  I can’t fix you like a pinpoint
on a starchart.  Vapors dribble from the core,
gas clouds haze the shape.  I can’t get a lock.
You are not supposed to shift.

To find you, I make another box.  Bigger.
Or smaller.  Different materials and angles.
But you shift.
I make another.  Another.

Maybe, if we part, I will move to a better place.
Go forward, a red shift, the astronomers call it.
I will sweep out the corners and leave
your boxes behind the building, stacked forlornly
for the morning pick-up.

Maybe, if we grow old, I will collect them.
Go backward, a blue shift, the stargazers say.
I will keep them in the attic, full of letters
and empty bottles, a fire hazard of our devotion.

 

 

 

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