My mind floats away from specificity
even in tense
it's fear, my anti-gravity, a terror at the deepness of space,
drives me to the emptiness of space.
I feel it in my face, not quite a tremor,
more a tremulous pinch, as each fiber convenes
at the sharp tip of my nose's hat;
a scent in the air, I turn toward it, and blanch.
Vagueness is where fear loses traction, yes,
as does all else
I ease back to the road with my rubber feet
duck feet unready to wobble more than a yard a minute.
My warped walk gains posture until the poise is shattered
by a specific demon, a ghost, a phantasmagoric prelude
to I know not what
who drives me back beyond the rock-cinched belt
Roman Ryan 