Perhaps we shouldn’t take it at all.
Perhaps we should leave it where it is,
in the quiet clouds
and the comings and goings of the sea.
Comfort is something we can see
in the veins of our hands
and in the rising of silence at sunset.
It’s in a table
that allows our elbows to rest,
and in a shirt
that shares its softness with our skin.
Comfort will care for us
when we call it.
It’s as near as any street
that effortlessly shows us the way
to the next street, and the next.