When energy is destroyed in one form, it reappears in a 
         corresponding quantity in another.

You can pound it, pound it
down till you think, Thank god,
            It’s finally gone away,
            or you can shoot it
up in the air and hope
it will keep on going
            and going somewhere else
            and leave you alone
at last, but here it comes
in disguise, not only claiming
           to be your long-lost brother,
           but your father and the father
of your father’s children. No matter
how many times you snap
           your wrist and your fingers
           to get rid of the shred
of plastic, it clings there
like flypaper as you grow
           warmer with exercise,
           or you can huff and puff
at a candle flame: the seizure
of the diaphragm is transformed
           into a moving column
           of air, which narrows
between your lips 
to send a burning gold
           hydrocarbon crown
           back to the blue beginning
and in its smoky way
into a jangle of molecules,
           leaving you to recover
           your breath in your own darkness.