My Calendar

"What day is it?"

A hook for stones

and bricks reclining on glossy loose-leaf.

"Too fast! Too fast!"

I tell the Galaxy.

"Please spin a little slower!"

*

What root is it

that now gives birth

to this asphyxiating paranoia?

My brain scrambles

in shaky circles,

At trying to glimpse my timid fears.

*

They hide from me,

my fears. I ask:

"Show me the face of what I'm afraid of."

Nothing answers, but

these stones way a ton.

Why do I always forget to flip

the calendar?