Laying there I can touch my own cold fingers.
Where is your memory, body,
of the ninety four degrees hot hot hot
it was so short ago?
How can you be so insensate, you sensitive creature.
No real memory of feeling faint
I'm cold now.
It is seventy-four and were the sun shining
this would be delightful
yet in the dark
you complain to me.
Strange naked thing
to be so defenseless and yet need such a terrifically small
parameter of change.
I wonder at my design, your design, our body
getting a blanket.