There’s a fear of leaving the house
and a fear of clouds. There’s a fear

of gods, mirrors, men, and cemeteries.
There’s a fear of dogs, fear of yawning,

fear of flowers, fear of being forgotten.
There’s my own fear of hearing good news,

the same fear that tells me I am lonely
and I laugh: how simple my fear must be

in order to fit so neatly into categorization.
When I drive home to you, I listen to the radio

and think of a way to explain myself calmly.
Love of my life, you say when I arrive.

Fear of my fear, I reply.