I'm piling blankets on my heart
I'm hanging mattress protection
on the windows.
Drafts skinny in anyway:
at the nape,
trails through my hair,
finger tipping throat attaches,
finger tips where ribs drape.

This week I was like a girl
in a bear house,
chilled too fast
chilled too slow.

Oh no, downy liar.
He wasn't too fast.
She wasn't too slow.
"This one is just right."
Yes. Now for all the furniture,
all the bowls.

Call it cold or cold's opposite,
the blankets you pile are made of it too.