Oh Panic

Change looms at elbows and slithers around ankles

waiting for a calm in the air before it rankles

and destroys a peace barely even met.

Mouth dry. Strands of hair, tangled in knuckles, blow wet.

Misty air weeps with me. Belly clutching. Belly rumbling 

terror at tomorrow. A wail on the wind. Tumbling

speckles— Blind, angry sky and foreign thump-thumps.

Half moons on palms and red white pumps

blossoms of blood at the corners of my eyes and

dark monsters lurking on the rise and

felt fingers dragging over knees and 

deep fear of nothing but the leaves

creeping at the windows,

tickling at the green Dos

Equis bottle that shivers

as my heart delivers

little fears,

hot tears.

Tight gears:

Spiked spears.