Ontology In Blankets, Like The One You Gave Me When The Heat Stopped Working

Colors like arrows
Pointing under floor boards
Scratching under skin
Wrapped in 
	Solace
	In woolen threat
 	In an unsung soul’s
	Oblivion.

Your hands build warmth with archer’s bows
Your voice crafts texture with colored steam
Your eyes weave cover with the dry stillness of life unfurled
Your lips make me
	Aware.

Of threads like sand, color under color, matching, matching all things that bleed the 
	walls, shifting pieces of love and lust for symphonies sung by car parts, flowers in
	your golden hair. June 6th, Aileen Wuornos, out one ear and into silence, parataxis
in well-dressed speech, 
	your hands nestling me into sleep.