The Unmarked Degrees

The thermostat dial is worn almost gone,

numbers faded to nothing,

and the pointer trembles between 62 and beyond,

and I can't tell if it's spring or the long

stretch of winter that never ends.

I turned it right the first night,

thinking that meant heat,

and woke up drowning, gasping in fright,

sweat pooling under my sheets.

I turned it left the next morning,

my fingers numb, useless, and cold,

and I learned what the apartment was warning:

I'm not supposed to know what to hold.

So I leave it now where it settles,

somewhere between yes and no,

and I've learned not to fidget with metal,

not to need what I can't ever know.

There's a kind of mercy in the not-knowing,

in the space where I can't read the dial,

in learning that letting go, and going

forward blind, is enough for a while.