If only by some miracle these thoughts
would end having worried my brain as one
who nestles into mounds of hay. The bale
wears its field-smell—its ephemeral mind,
the idea of safety. Worry, the mouth
of a sleeping breather. The instinct to love is to worry.
And night upon night mounds of cut grasses,
a kind of shelter from unmoored stars. Night
upon night, a slip of the moon through creases
between bodies. Bodies beneath thatch. Between
worries and between slippages of selves.
Those of us who stayed awake—we who stayed
awake in the expectant dwelling in flux—
sewn up. And here. Very quiet. Breathing.