the fear that I might
collapse into brevity
the fear that I may
never cook this
wheat spaghetti
the fear that any
of several things
that at present are
noted as “pending”
might remain so
indefinitely
the fear of cockroaches,
of scorpions,
of bumblebees
and lizards
the fear, not so much of
an earthquake itself, but of
what one, should it come,
might leave in its wake
speaking of which, the fear of
dying in my sleep (much as I
do hope that’s the way that I
inevitably go)
the fear that arises, when one
needs to be identified (such
moments these days which
occur, it seems to me, with
increasing frequency), of
having irrevocably misplaced
my driver’s license (ditto the
most previous parenthetical)
the fear of losing my wallet,
my catalog of electronic files (my
photographs, my poetry, my
correspondence), of losing
my wit; my memory,
my marbles
the fear that friends and
acquaintances may see
neurosis as one of my
primary characteristics
the fear that I may never again
have the pleasure of the proximity
of friends or even well-established
acquaintance
the fear of being
unable to communicate
the fear that I may
never again travel abroad
the fear of the
comfort of
confinement
the fear of
over-indulgence
