WEBVTT

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Dear fear, the body can be
whole without your breaking.

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Control the arc of
its own experience.

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A body in its own time,
possessed of itself.

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Someone delivering
sound takes it away.

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The far off ones eyeing what
I do what the other writers do

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with parchment scrolls,
hunched in their kitchens,

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caged in wood, as readers move
their lips behind vintage radio

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microphones.

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A fan of entropy
and encroachment.

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You exist in the non
participatory gleam.

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Dear fear, when I write, it
also feels like listening.

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A speculative share in
the collective unraveling.

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When I sat beneath the white
curtain, it felt like clouds.

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And obviously, I
had no need of you.

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I should probably [? show ?]
that while it's still going.

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But in the recent past.

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I was afraid of birds.

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They made me feel
my own wildness.

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And that makes me afraid.

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I let control hold the
frightening wildness back.

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I must have cultivated
an avoidance of nature

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in the process of
becoming acceptable.

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I allowed avoidance
to breathe you, fear.

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You were so big once, I couldn't
see my real self in the mirror.

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I shifted away.

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