Flown

Meaning is somewhat reminiscent
Of potential energy—easy
To know in most cases there’s some there,

Hard to say, exactly, why it goes.
What happened to the arrow, the bow,
The book that slipped from hand to floor?

You can still fiddle with the vessel
Where potential energy was stored,
Impart some fresh energy to it,

And the vessel itself may look
For all the world the same—same bow,
Same book, same arrow. But it’s less.

Energy, famously, converts
And shifts itself but never leaves—
Goes elsewhere but never really goes.

Does the analogy hold up
On this score? Information’s saved,
We’re told, but meaning? No one knows.