A Coming of Rage Story

There’s profound disappointment in your voice when I say no that’s no longer there;

no; that belongs to the wildflowers; the ghetto palms; there’s a piquing curiosity in your brow; why so many prairies in the Fourth City?; there’s a sweeping anger at the loss whose pangs you never had to feel; directly; whose stinging slap; the idiocy of it; you experience; only in an unquenching visual dosage;

something by nothing begot;

but your fire is kindled nonetheless; and you leave an arm; a heart; an eye; on a clearcut lot; and don’t worry; the pictures like fangs of mangled stained glass; come together to reveal a sacred biting whole; worthy of veneration;

if only more blood had been spilled sooner.