Aug 292011

Muscular terror swipes at our skins
        with its professional ironblack hooks,
Peers in at every evening window,
        flashes out of every book.
Defined by what we fear, we each begin
        dawn within a mirror's hollow look.
Terror's all eagerness and action--
        a nightmare thing with wings;
An Anthony Hopkins' Hannibal, one
        horror that glares and preens,
Agitates all hearts like flippers, and thumps
        at the back of every scene.

Before this lonesome sojourn launched
        in Body's leaky boat,
Did we hesitate on the angled grass,
        touch toes beneath the moat?
Did we dream of all the dreams of wanting
That lifelong flock about us,
        circling and taunting?

But here we are, and that's the main thing,
        hugging ourselves in shopping malls,
Screeching at the top of the swing.
        Our lonely unaloneness should appall
But is itself a kind of lovely;
Or so I think the angels think,
       hovering abovely.

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