Don’t look at me,
I don’t want to travel
to dark lands,
I don’t want to go about
touching things
in a room without light.

Don’t take me with you,
I would rather stay here,
close to the coffee machine,
house keys,
and old doormat.

Don’t take me away
from the things I know,
I have learned to avoid their edges,
I know their smells,
their old wood,
their new metal.

Don’t move me away from yawns
from shallow elevator conversations
from family meals
from planned sex
from the same old lack of patience
before taking the bus.

Don’t look at me,
for there is danger
in the summits of your eyes,
for sure,
ice, a landslide,
a flood,
that will carry with it
chairs, plants, shopping lists, forks, books,
all of the real things
that protect me.