With so many questions lacking answers
& too many others
lacking comfort,
as days slip past us
faster & faster:

once again King Panic* wins.

Thin layer of foil beneath the skin**,
& as if in a dream
wind contributes to the scene:

the rain hard & wild against the window,
& the Sun fleeing the grey sky
as tired eyes
shrink from the fading light.

Sullen shudders of self-awareness &
the contemplation
of desperate measures.

Sensing this, the
tachhyonic voltage between us
prompts you to ask:

“What’s wrong?”
& though
I fail to convey it to you
through speech,
language is not all that we need
for us both to believe
that the other understands:

the calm of your hand against my neck
slowly
returns me,
& the questions no longer matter:

without an answer
there can be no question to begin with.

* Johnny Panic and the Bible of Dreams – Sylvia Plath
** Leaving the Atocha Station – Ben Lerner