Mozetič Brane:
I’ve Grown Fearful Of Words

I’ve grown fearful of words and poems, the way they run

beneath my fingers, get bigger, bloodier

pull me toward their vortex, change my course so powerfully

that every syllable makes me waver, when will it attack

when will it change what’s future to what’s past, pronounced,

experienced, recorded, where you’ll never again await

the unexpected, just tread lightly in the background behind a word

that carries you, and carries you, and you’re still

afraid to speak, you wait in dread of when those nights will come, hot

and bloody, as though possessed by unknown powers, the flaming

ball that whirls in the sky, by strangers in

the woods who hunt you through the trees and exorcise

what’s strange with words, so that just the past, the past     is

left to you, a hundred times more dreadful than any hopes,

immeasurably more ruinous than the unknown days

of any future time - lost when?