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.