We know nothing of how it all works, / how we end up in one bed or another, / speak one language instead of the others, / what heat draws us to our life’s work / or keeps us from a dream until it’s nothing / but a blister we scratch in our sleep.
Steal something worthless, something small, / every once in a while. A lighter from the counter. / Call it a gift from the gods of fire. / Call it your due.