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I dedicate this poem to Hanna for being brilliant, and also to just_the_contrary for her helpfullness and nice comments.

I


They say fear
is a strange thing

(tones ragged, low,

on the lips),

once in ink
and once in speech:
grey, and black,
and somewhat

lost.

One of those things
we cannot but
properly misunderstand,
misplace—

all guesses, all mere
hollow thoughts without that
room for slight correctness
based on not-facts,

(and self-morals—
false, perhaps?—)

and nothing

else.

II

You have never
understood fear—
(that odd,

ambiguous thing.)

But at times you wonder
if it is that which comes
to an all-snagged falling

into

the not-known

(all turning, all black—)

rancid, grey, large,
in your dreams.

—you wonder
if it is this feeling

(cold, lingering)

on your back,
on your skin;

that slight prickle
on your arm, all-
lifting thing—that
rancid,acid breathing

(its)—

on you.