the x-ray gun at your head.
Since childhood you've dreaded their sine curves,
alpha particles, parameters; for years
you've suffered from prosody,
econometrics, phenomenology.
But now you swear you are turning
a new leaf: you will make an in-depth study
of semiotics, commodities, Mendelian ratios,
endothermic reactions, hermeneutics . . .
You are wrong: you will never know
the right word for anything; you will not know
the runic languages, the cuneiform;
you will not know
the Chinese ideogram for death.
You will lie in an unmarked grave.
MORTIPHOBIA, THE FEAR OF SELF-REPROACH
I am the bony arm
"Under a keen sense of shame there is
a strong desire for concealment. "
around your throat, the clutching
deep in your guts.
When your heart flips like a bad
TV,
it's me.
I know just how much you can take:
I give you a little more.
Don't scream; that music
excites me.
At noon you may get away,
but
I'll
have you again at sundown.
If
you thought last night was bad,
wait till three A.M.: I have something
special in mind, involving
clammy sheets, and moaning
in your sleep.
I'll
be waiting.
