The box probably full of live animals
or other animals has gone missing
and with it the sense of crushed sadness
to which we’d so lovingly tended
and now we have what on our hands—
not nothing but not the sky either
and time seems nearly correct
but that is its mischievous nature.
What is it that we are attached to—
stamps, ferns, nettles?
To have lost as we have so greatly
and to discover we still hold abundance—
how does this and anything happen?
We’ve seen the stars blown out
not returning and yet we have
also seen whole fleets in jars.