fuzzy (as in warm, but also as in sparks)

Like caterpillars we cocoon against each other, exchanging silken thread and pupa for flannel sheet and mattress. I twist round and around to make this: a shield of warmth, a shell of light. My armor against my other, a terrible darkness that seeks to sap me of my warmth and extinguish my flame.

The hairs on his neck grew as the air grew thicker and heavier, signs which he felt despite the elements resisting his presence: icicles forming on his beard, the rain pelting against his face and coat, and the wind almost pushing against his labored breathing.

"What a pisser," he thought to himself.

With a titanic BOOM, the promise of the static-laden air was fulfilled. He closed his eyes to the brilliant light, and let the thunder roll through him,

as if it were but echoes of his pulsating heart, 

murmuring off the mountains.

Stepson elegy + the story of the Cherokee Rose

I'm reading Alfred Corn's collection of lines: Present

                             ... Our next-to-last

Heart-to-heart you said you couldn't taste anything

Which reminded me how ...

                         ...-it's not a turban but a crown

You're wearing (see, I too have lost all sense of taste)

And not of white roses but of plaited thorns.

We are like penguins
during the Antarctic night 

drawn together by the warmth

perspective

At one point [we] slept in a tent, and at work, and in the car. We "showered" at work using a mug and standing in a cooler. 

A few years later I hear him mention "that time when we were homeless".

a cloud.

I was completely shocked as it was the first time I interpreted it that way. 

I had always thought we were living a cheap adventure.

Beauty is.

 

But the painters and poets could look at the world, safely, through the lens of religious subjects; Galileo, looking through his lens, saw the religious non-subject.

They looked at people and saw angels; he looked at the heavens, and didn’t. 

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