That there are a million reasons not to

be in it. 

That it is all warm animal, my only 

possible home.

That it whispers to me always

in hushed tones. 

That it delights in me if I delight in it,

gently, lightly.

That attention is a form of fearless

love.

That there are billions of individual pears

in this world.

That not to let my body taste them separately 

is dreaming a kind of death.