there is the fear of waking up in the middle
of the night and not knowing what to do
and also the fear of never being able
to fall asleep again
there is the fear that life turns suddenly still
and one looks behind not knowing where
the past has gone and how it was lived, and by whom
there is also the fear
of failed encounters, even (or especially so) those
one has long dreamt of
there is the fear that the phone will ring
to let one know the child is sick again
and also the fear that the stranger one passes by
suddenly turns around and the last thing one sees
is the silver flash of an unexplainable knife
(or, for variation, the fear of a temple blow leaving one
lying there calmly and almost gracefully, accomplished,
as one has never been able to,
while alive)
there is the fear that the other has already departed, or will
soon leave, without notice
the fear that this body will never again know lust
or
it will be too frail to contain
that last overwhelming wave of desire
there are so many fears
and yet
above all these fears
there rises the soft gleam of the birch
when spring is almost
here.
