stars. starts.

This can of beer.
Open. Empty. Forgotten. Needing disposal.
Unremarkable in its blue and red and gold and white, in its shining and its matte,
its machine-perfect cylindricity,
warnings and measurements of volume and assurances of authenticity, all
without meaning
without distinction from
another can
object
moment
on the street it would be stepped over
here at the desk it has been gathering dust
and yet
it is less than a century old
as are its oldest brethren
the idea of its being
the metallurgy of its making not yet two centuries
metallurgy itself not yet 10 millenia...
this can is an infant and will die in infancy
not aged enough to merit a name