i can't lose the anxiety, i'm not alright, not doing things right, i'm up at 1.05, that shouldn't be. it's not the wind. i hear it fluttering the plastic flags on the roof next door, close in the loose storm window. my heart grasps nothing like a stiffened fist. it's not solitary, my prehensile thinking, it's in the flight of birds. i'm a pattern of ligaments and bones, thin and paunchy, slipping with swoops and sinewy beats.       i'm small prey, a vole in a tuft of weeds.