Containment

28th of January 2026.

Here, remember when

you poured a bit of yourself

into that container

and shut the lid,

or hoped the lid

would shut itself.

In a room, on a

park bench, in an

institution corridor,

beside the weathered,

moss-covered stones

of a collapsed mountain wall,

you spoke into a space.

I try to find one of yours,

a clue to its shape.

I think, perhaps, you

find me irritating, or

annoying, or not worth

keeping around. We do not

leave our boxes in the same

spaces, we pass by and smile

at each other, and do not

pour anything into anything.

And we live, we live like this.