Composure, first tell
me what it is. For example
fire. Warmth is what I
love. Fire’s comfort
is undeniable and you’ll
grant anyone that.
You tell me
other people are warm
and I have some
unnamable characteristic.
It whispers come here
in your ear.
Comfort, I remind you,
is distinct from pleasure is
to-make-shelter-alongside.
And so what if all the indoor
plants are wilting sad
brown leaves on the floor
and neither of us cleans baseboards?
The dust isn’t something else,
it’s you and me, skin sloughing off.
Our barriers: leftover light catcher,
external mote—