In the morning Dyson feels like
he cannot be social. He sits
at his desk, trying to observe
the enthalpy of his room’s air
with the motion of his hand.
He is working on a patent
that he has tentatively titled
I Cannot Find This Heat in My
Body Enough. He has not gotten much
down. It seems like a sad joke
that his heart’s warmth
is reliant on its volume and pressure.
His surroundings feel buoyant
with misfortune, and he is troubled
by this. He works through his despair
on the patent, then finds his friends.