Then all you have to love
are airholes, corners
cool and flat against
your listening cheek,


big box of owning.
Ears' awkward shapes
in the dark, glimpsed
shifts and motion lines


to stir your nerves. You—
the human the box
must love—prod it, predict


an X where the animal
is. You jostle in case
care needs to take
place in the present,


suddenly misgive,
belatedly align 
the airholes with your eyes.