From Graffiti Calculus “The Phenomenology of the Name,” 8. [Terror telegraphs itself]

Terror telegraphs itself. That first night you stayed away from home
            the dog placed his moist jowls
on the bed as I roiled in the dark. The silent house was sucking
            all the oxygen and I lay gasping.
I had been calling your cellphone, stabbing a tattoo to conjure you,
            to call you back to quarters.
Once, you answered. My voice left my throat and flew to my limits,
            transmuting in the air into a fist
to hold you there. You disconnected me. Now, my hearing was like
            the dog’s, agitating at the door before
the key is in, listening for its opening motif, its closing a bomb
            I would have welcomed.
Terror leads to terror, now I know. But that . . . that was true vertigo,
            to feel in motion even when at rest.