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Poem	Not fear. Maybe, out there somewhere, the possibility of fear; the wall that might tumble down, because it's for sure that behind it is the sea. Not fear. Fear has a countenance; It's external, concrete, like a rifle, a shot bolt, a suffering child, like the darkness that's hidden in every human mouth. Not fear. Maybe only the brand of the offspring of fear. It's a narrow, interminable street with all the windows darkened, a thread spun out from a sticky hand, friendly, yes, not a friend. It's a nightmare of polite ritual wearing a frightwig. Not fear. Fear is a door slammed in your face. I'm speaking here of a labyrinth of doors already closed, with assumed reasons for being, or not being, for categorizing bad luck or good, bread, or an expression — tenderness and panic and frigidity - for the children growing up. And the silence. And the cities, sparkling, empty. and the mediocrity, like a hot lava, spewed out over the grain, and the voice, and the idea. It's not fear. The real fear hasn't come yet. But it will. It's the doublethink that believes peace is only another movement. And I say it with suspicion, at the top of my lungs. And it's not fear, no. It's the certainty that I'm betting, on a single card, the whole haystack I've piled up, straw by straw, for my fellow man.
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