I
try to think of little things,
Like
mice, and minnows, and
The
microscopic line that separates
Me
from "the edge." Like a tightrope
Trod
by a hobbit, suddenly conscious
Of
his seven meals a day, his weight
Gain,
and the way his girth weighs
High
on the balance, tilting neither
One
way nor the other, I am misbalanced
All
the same by a gravity greater than
My
own—but what I think about
The
little things, like me, like him,
Is
that anxiety is consumptive.
It
pulls us in, tight, packed, and as it
Does
us, we do as well to others.
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