POTENTIAL ENERGY
I
am a child with anger
management issues; I grow
wings when folding chairs
clatter down
the stairs.
Coming soon: dyspepsia, dysphoria,
hunger for begrudging.
What that my
fire
lofts feather crevices?
What that my temper
tempers bellows?
What that
my reflux corrodes release valves?
Shall I—can I—continue
gouging cloud-channels
for every trembling's steam?
Landslides of furniture
wedge awaiting
quaking earth
or dear dynamic rapids
where there's no stepping twice,
where one foot
down
begets the next trap.
What past streams at me,
face frozen to
current?
You can always turn back
except in time. You can confess
your cobbles
through gouged asphalt;
civilization's best intentions
repent in rot. The future holds
a grudge sleek as a heel's wake.
If salvation arrives
in immersion, I will wait. |