Covid anxiety
Falling into that pleated dark,
I count my breaths.
Blood sings in my ears.
My pulse threads a jittered beat.
I harvest my fears –
Blood skeins tangle into clots,
rampaging towards my heart.
Panic
That god-goat scrabbles against
the soft stew of my brains.
Panic.
The dying hour before the dawn,
when our fingers lose their grip
and we tumble down, down,
into the waiting dark.
Between sleep and wake.
I lie, gripped by fear,
until I see a pale shine
beyond the curtains.
Images dissolving,
Reforming
then
My cat scratches at the door,
scenting small things.
I stretch out, moving
the nuts and bolts of my limbs.
I feel the tug of life.