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
intothe 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.