We yearn to feel comfortable,
to imagine that the world babies us.
We baby the word, swaddle it
in down blankets, coo comfy into
the fleeced sheets. Discomfort
is temporary, we learn as infants,
as children, but even as adults
we pretend that comfort, fullness,
warmth will never lapse. Why
is this happening, we cry out
when it does, as the tabletop
inches out from under our hands,
place settings rattling in front
of us, knives and spoons clanking,
and then it is ripped away
from us, the floorboards, too, flaking
and splintering as they fall
into the windy, cavernous darkness.
Just as we locate our center
of gravity, the chaos fairy visits at night,
loops lead weights around
our limbs, ties balloons to our hearts.
In the morning, we wrap
ourselves in blankets, close our eyes.
Just five more minutes,
we implore our consciousness.