On Comfort

On Comfort

I have come
to hold myself like a stone
on the dry palm
of my upturned hand,
to comfort myself
with a calloused thumb.

I have come
not to rest or take light
for a ragged shroud
but to peer from dark centers,
wakeful,
leaving
the pillow with its own life.

I have come for this:
gathering the short night,
stories like fitful dust
taking the air,
words slipping through darkness,
a brief shimmer and shine.

18 thoughts on “On Comfort

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