by jane cooper
If you want my apartment, sleep in it
but let’s have a clear understanding:
the books are still free agents.
If the rocking chair’s arms surround you
they can also let you go,
they can shape the air like a body.
I don’t want your rent. I want
a radiance of attention
like the candles’s flame when we eat,
I mean a kind of awe
attending the spaces between us —
Not a roof but a field of stars.