Intimacies

A little death—a sky 
with geese stitched on.
My fears are all explainable— 
it’s cortisol, it’s fate, 
the jerk of mercury, 
the joints’ arthritic 
prescience about rain.

A many-lidded face up close 
is creaturely. I have to shut 
one eye to see it neatly, 
and terror is ungovernable 
nearness. While lying
in my grave, I’ll dream of this.