It is a gift to grasp at my anger,
to use it to create, to re-create a moment later.
Poetry feels fraudulent as I try to capture
the moment before this one.
The one I had to let go of. I cannot
summon it from those places
ideas go to die.
My anger carefully sprouted from
watered with tears, fed by the fire
Where is it now,
after I have treated it with a morsel
medicine to get through
another night of living
in the fallen world?
Until next time, I suppose.