The experience of fear is not an observer of it; he is fear itself, the very instrument of fear. br -J. Krishnamurti br br In dreams I descend br into the cave of my past: br a child with a morgue-tag br on its toe, br the terrible metal squeaking br of the morgue-drawers, br & the chilly basement br & the slam of doors. br br Or else I am setting up dreamhouse, br with the wife br of my second ex-husband. br She complains of him br with breaking sorrow- br & I comfort her. br (She only married him, it seems, for me). br br Sometimes I wake up naked br in Beverly Hills- br the table set for ten, a formal dinner- br a studio chief on my left side, br a fabled actor on my right. br Across the table, br Greta Garbo, Scott Fitzgerald, br John F. Kennedy & Marilyn Monroe- br br & I alone not properly dressed for dinner, br & besides unprepared br for the final exam, br in which our immortality br will be tested, br & one of us shall perish br as dessert. br br Send parachutes & kisses! br Send them quick! br I am descending into the cave br of my own fear. br My feet are weighted br with the leg-irons of the past. br The elevator plummets br in the shaft. br br trapped, trapped in the bowels br of my dream, br locked in the cellar br by myself the jailer. br Rats and spiders scuttle br through the coal bin. br I cower in the corner. br br I am fear.