Mid-panic attack I bite
the tip of my index finger
to keep from passing out.  
The sky darkens and my priest  
is the only one who questions
the weather. A nurse  
reports the bad news  
and I hold on as if the bar
across my lap will not keep me
in the roller coaster seat.  
I expect to fly out, go total
astronaut against the pull
of mathematical equations.  
The earth is full-on color palatte
before the fade to blue-brown
cave, the interruption from a childhood  
picture book recited by heart.  
I tuck myself in, turn off remains
of every light, my heart eager  
as a flock of birds heading south.  
They call this winter, the cold
air sweeping in, unfolded  
blankets, howling wind.