Ask:
It’s sorrow, isn’t it, 
the thing unnamed
unacknowledged
that sticks between living
and life itself?

Say:
To tell the truth
to say how bad the fear gets
to face it down as if under the Bodhi tree
there’s the dogma, what is supposed to happen
not the truth but the shell of truth dressed as coming true.

Add:
No use naming the weight of pain and fear
pushed away, off, down, back, out of direct experience
and waiting, trolling, lurking, leering
if grief can leer.
No use even of that ducking, that brilliant avoiding.

Fix:
No words.
Face it, allow it, welcome it into Rumi’s guest house.
Pain and terror, sorrow, worry—
what is it with the double r words?—
rip the skin with the bandage
walk across the fierce and fiery coals
break the peace that was a lie
no way out but through.

Pace:
Slow the cruel, taut, necessary Default Mode Network—unman it
slow the breath catching the ragged edge of restless sorrow
slow the walk to lie down where the wood drake rests
slow the fingers, even, on this keyboard
slow the day, slow the chewing
slow the starting to speak
slow the futile talking
slow to no escape.