pretty sure you weren't talking about me

When you're in the middle of something you love, you might be afraid.

But at rope's end. Gutless poetry arrives afraid to call its own number.

Working one's way toward the bridge of one so afraid his thinking jumps.

How the guessing is all afraid of the picture that might be made.

Afraid of a car, a window, another storey. Afraid of the zero the zone.

Something of nothing. Something for nothing. Something in nothing.

I was afraid to name the bird, the rock, the very sober tree among so many others.

It is all of everything and next to nothing afraid of the latest tiny push.