Dear fear, the body can be whole without your breaking.
Control the arc of its own experience.
A body in its own time, possessed of itself.
Someone delivering sound takes it away.
The far off ones eyeing what I do what the other writers do
with parchment scrolls, hunched in their kitchens,
caged in wood, as readers move their lips behind vintage radio
microphones.
A fan of entropy and encroachment.
You exist in the non participatory gleam.
Dear fear, when I write, it also feels like listening.
A speculative share in the collective unraveling.
When I sat beneath the white curtain, it felt like clouds.
And obviously, I had no need of you.
I should probably [? show ?] that while it's still going.
But in the recent past.
I was afraid of birds.
They made me feel my own wildness.
And that makes me afraid.
I let control hold the frightening wildness back.
I must have cultivated an avoidance of nature
in the process of becoming acceptable.
I allowed avoidance to breathe you, fear.
You were so big once, I couldn't see my real self in the mirror.
I shifted away.