You are
an infinite imprecision--
a caulk-consolation for
my scabbed handful of needs.
And
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
the true granite rises impregnable.
Or
a shiny medal, hard and gold, cold
against the glass-- a symbol of past joy,
or a suggestion of future joy.
You are
the flagpole upon which I hang my spine--
when dignity loses tautness,
whom else have I on earth?
So
if, as I have been warned, relics
turn to dust, I pray the elusive
shelter of your reality.