|Fear falls in layers—
as foot missing stair,
as head banging unexpected shelf,
as taut-nerved prayers over ailing child,
May the morning come.
As persistent half-knowledge
that I’ll say something wrong at last
and you will find me wanting.
Under such sediment,
a heart can wear as sore
as skin rubbed too long by rough wool.
I wait for your hand to cover mine
to reassure that seventy times seven
is forever away.