The Meaning Box by Fred Muratori

Remove the lid — and nothing.
While we were dreaming
or debating, it escaped.
Its damp scent lingers in the air.

What now? The box looks bigger
in sunlight, and bottomless
even emptier with each minute,
an accelerating vacuum.

What could we gather to fill it?
Not the churning matter of stars,
not our own misunderstood lives.
What can be done beyond begin?

Here — a eucalyptus branch,
a battered violin, a drop
of human blood. And words,
certainly, but in no certain order.