I guess it matters which way
the weather vane has been pulled
and where the leaves wave
in the crisp mornings under clouds
marching beatlessly above. It matters
the angle at which I’m standing, the angle
of the floor on which I’m walking,
and the angle of the earth beneath.
It matters even the way I hold you
and the way you hold me, our proximity
and interaction, our place in the world.
All this and more matter greatly
in determining whether I need to
change my shirt after you spit up on me
in the morning, but of course that
in itself matters very little to you.