PRIMITIVE EYES

Places where fear won’t tell tales and poems, nor form figures of terror and glory.

Empty gray is my name, my pronoun.

I know the spectrum of fears and that slow beginning of song in the gorge which brings me back to my stranger that I am, my emigrant from herself.

I write against fear. Against the clawed wind that lodges itself in my breathing.

And when in the morning, you’re scared to find yourself dead (and no more images): the silence of compression, the silence of mere being, this is how years vanish, this is how beautiful animal happiness fled.