Here

Nothing touches us
the world becomes very small
there are no others here
to permeate my heart like a thief in the dusk
There is winter, grass slowly folding into bleached yellow
there is a fire, breathing into my face, drying tears
there is a breathing mountain, softly in the morning
deeply in the night.

Perhaps
out in the world there are explosions
wars
people reeling in recession
lines of cars waiting for traffic lights to change
here
there is only a simplified day
a recipe book, butter melting into mashed potatoes
a long soundless night