Form for Nothing

This new lamp, small,

a thumb of light,

came cradled in a white whale.

A sculpted block,

precise as a mold

for a lost body part.

It squeaks when I touch it,

a dry, protesting sound.

Tiny beads, like static snow,

cling to my fingers,

to the counter.

It is bigger than the lamp,

bigger than the box,

almost bigger than the problem.

What was saved, exactly?

This fragile bulb

from a slight bruise?

Now the white form sits,

a ghost of its function,

too big for the bin,

too light to just sink.

It just is.