Softened Fingertips

Surrounded by sounds
and unwashed dishes;
clothes affixed to the
broken chairs
and hopes unspoken;
I attain peace.

Over the stains of days
on electric devices
and trails of dust
swirling between the carpets
I soften my fingertips.

Through undressed shamelessly
amused corncobs
I inhale the wind-moved shadows
to my lungs
inhabited by long-eared hares
absconders of my 
Cambridge-designed mug.

What isn't possible 
in these occurrences ?

What occurrences would
stop me
from word-praying
concoct and dream up?