Untitled

In the cocoon of my car, one night,

I sat under a tree

and told it how anxiety is a creature

that crawls

in the stomach. Or radiation,

itching on the flesh;               

or a sand storm, a dust cloud,

bewildering. It's fear.          

It makes one last demand, then another, and another,

forever. It's the inflammation

in response to a spec,           

or is it a spec?

I don’t know.                     

I don't know what's real.

Except that tree.              

And though it did not care,

through the sunroof,

I needed its embrace,

and noted how its leaves

were made yellow by Autumn and sodium

from the street lamp,

and looked like petals.

And the next night, I talked to a friend, which was even better.