If I let this anger go, where would it go?
    If into air, would it fall back
    as thunder in the next storm rising?
    If into water, who might drink it in?
    I cannot bury it in earth, or it could sprout.
    A forest of such rage would be too cruel.
    It will not burn itself out; smouldering,
    it does not flare nor fade. Holding it up
    to the light, I cannot tell it from the light.
    In the dark, keeping me from sleep,
    it whispers loud enough to be heard
    but not understood, holds me
    like a chill. I want it to be still.

    I want to sit and ease its grip
    with song, its temper loosened from
    belly into lap, all furred, bristling
    with glares, but present as a chair,
    seen for what it is. The clash of minutes
    on a clock. Hope condensing on a knife.
    Love divided into want and need.
    I would listen to this fury speak
    in its own voice, words that hold no
    meaning but their being, discover
    how it lives and why it came to me.

28 November 2001   19:34 hours
hunger { } dull