Warmth

Refusing to let my effusive beauty be checked,
I spin silence into studded string. Each bead
a kernel of impact, a photograph of the wreck,
scattered invitations. Innervating air with seeds
of dedication. Residual happiness tugs
at shirt-sleeve, asks if ready. Get real,
I ask politely. Beneath downy bed-sheet husk
roams empty sunflower shells. They feel
every morning like fingernail clippings,
like ephemera of a stranger, some macaroni-glue
portrait in shambles, bits of anxiety embedding
itself into the dunes of my weary shoes.
We try to keep from what's too hot to touch,
while furnace-mind spits from wanting so much.