of piled comforter
she would burrow at night
and sigh—as if
all of the love
which had ever existed
could abide its
tacit prison
and would continue to live
where the greatest
heat was.
Now, when I'm
oftentimes chilled
and alone
as I slip
between considerably
thinner sheets, I think
maybe her misapplied
instinct was right:
maybe it could—
and maybe
it does.
