I envy you, that you feel,
that you feel.
Even my blankets
show more emotion than I, and only this
gives me warmth.
As such, in a night full of stars,
I can only be indignant at
the spaces between them; or pretend I am
— remember clearly, I envy you.
But so does the moon,
with its phases as volatile, bright,
I envy that you feel,
that you feel,
when I am like the wilderness;
like a desert so vast that I might dream to contain you —
draw in me with delicate fingers,
one sun at a time, dear stranger,
that I might be filled with art and song
that all shall vanish upon the slightest whisper
— A. P.