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.