"Fear" is the thing with dark fur—
"Fear" is the thing with dark fur—
That perches on the soul—
And snacks upon the winged beasts—
That may be resting there—
And growling—in the calm—is heard—
And Heavenly's the peace—
That could allay the mangy hound
Of which so many warned—
It found me in the silent night—
With naught for hope of sleep—
It gnawed on each extremity,
Left not a crumb of me.
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You can change how the tea leaves land.
You're not required to close your eyes
and blindly swirl.
But don't let your reader know.
She'll just go on and on
and on. Something
about the mystery or upsetting the fates:
as if they're going to raise
their heads from the loom
for just any old mug.
So if it looks as if
the leaves are about to land
and hand you a cup of misfortune
just give it one last shake, or
perhaps, dump it on the table
upside down.
You're doomed anyway.
by Brian Garrison
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Brian Garrison doesn't frequently make a habit of shameless self-promotion, but you can read more of his poetry in his chapbook New Yesterdays, New Tomorrows.