Word like a dirt packed mouth, / tongue forced strike of roof in gasp, / throat impinged in resonance akin / to being buried alive: / Pteromerhanophobia. / Name as fitting as fear, chemicals / rush right past frayed nerve to terror— / There is no escaping an hour. / Who doesn’t watch birds stretch wing / and yearn to fly? Pity of a fear, really, / world gathered up in pleats and yet, / Everywhere is possible but my mind. / I do it anyway. / Walk through the terminal upright. / Like guaranteed, all semi-composure / until I lose earth again and must await / its return.