Interiors

They’re all containers,
Translucent boxes,
However they’re shaped,

Algal necklaces,
Like rectangular
Paste-glass emeralds,

Or hollow glass tiles,
The kind restrooms use
That diffuse sunlight

Into clouds of gold
A kind of beauty
Easy to miss, say,

At a highway stop
Among Idaho
Hops and potatoes,

That sun caught in tile,
Life caught as a cell
Of sheer folded light.