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If writing is a thread, how to weave it into something to be wrapped in, frayed fabric of changed plans and walks at the beach, the ocean and its tiny shells. Before enveloping, there was being. And before all that, a call—soft breeze at the start of spring, unmistakable blossoms of all the pink flowers, three years of videos compressed onto a phone, and iced oolong tea. Is the problem of comfort that comfort envelops, passes over ripples and stucco and violence renamed as compromise? Or is comfort an unwrapping, edges undone towards some beating core, a single sound at the middle of thought: breath or waves or blood. Richard Siken: “Let's admit, without apology, what we do to each other. / We know who our enemies are. We know.”