Nothing to fear but fear itself, so roam the rivers and vines—
you won’t feel the hairs raise on your neck at the black
stripes on red once you’re already dead.

But some days, I go to lie in the thicket—
pause my mind’s deafening silent maneuverings,
the artful weavings of my bulky, firm heart.

There’s nothing more ear-splitting to suits
than a stalking from a lone survivor
who still knows it’s the prey.