You are
an infinite imprecision--
a caulk-consolation for
my scabbed handful of needs.
the swelling bottle-reality
is not "and" but "or" I suppose.
(I accept Booleans as they come.)
You are
a paper monument in my mind,
but I never blanch, knowing somewhere
true granite rises impregnable.
Or
a shiny medal, hard and gold, cold
against the glass-- symbol of past joy,
a timid premonition of the future.
You are
the flagpole upon which I hang my spine--
when dignity loses tautness,
whom else have I on earth?
if, as I have been warned, relics
turn to dust, I pray the elusive
shelter of your reality.
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