The nightmare isn’t darkness.  And in this version, I’m frail enough to fall all
the way down the precipice I’d skipped along the edge of since well before
the fear was named.
                                     It’s white.  So white I can’t distinguish its corners,
its edges, its end, or its source of light; but my feet sink into something—
having fallen from wherever it was that was was before. 

                                                                                               The fear doesn’t
freeze, exactly, it’s the scared-to-to-trembling sort where I can smile,
even laugh in a suddenly social setting.  Anxiety strikes just as memory
powers down.  But only Natalie can tell.
                                                                       (The trembling is my schtick?)
Then someone wants to know what I think about some dire whatever,
and all that I can offer is, “I don’t know.  But I think she sells sea shells by
the sea shore.”  People laugh,
                                                   because I’m funny sometimes, and thankfully,
the conversation moves on, moves past me and the nightmare-white I’m
inside. Or—like accretion—that I’m supposed to be.
                                                                                           How planets form.
Little bits stick together and collide then stick together again-n-again-
n-again; and even here, in here, addled with too many pronouns,
I’m terrified of my voice’s pale echo
                                                               or not-echo.  Like I’ve gotta hide
that my path crossed Rakim before “Ode to the Wind.” I’m walking around
like—we’re all walking around like—like these blank pages are a way out.
Out of here, out of the dream I can’t leave:
                                                                           it was a room that’s so white
I can’t see its corners, just one incandescent band burning from under
what must be a door with its otherwise-undetectable edges.
                                                                                                           That’s it,
that’s the nightmare. Then the sandy dryness in my mouth and throat.
So dry I can’t swallow, or call for help, or discern if that place (this place?)
would allow—or cause—my voice to echo.