A piece of Warmth inside a human frame,
that does not have an equal counterfeit,
is what I search for when I say your name,
and what I lack when you don’t come with it.
If your name was a spell that summoned you,
you would not ever know a moment’s rest,
not that I simply can’t not be with you,
but that, when I’m asleep, you’re still addressed.
For dreams don’t keep from calling out to God
for what God only gives. That Warmth you are
is what my weary heart laments and lauds,
e’en when cold consciousness is very far.
If you were only here, you’d hush the cries
that come from where my fetal body lies.