Pastel violet lips, yellow remembrances of sun,
Candle lights that wrinkled the uncertain sky,
Gray and wobbly furrows on simple foreheads.
My anger creaked into the playground,
Squeaked from the see-saw, swung from the ladder,
Glistened in the rain, lay discarded beneath the tube tunnel,
Littered the grainy ground,
Flapped wings, rising heavily
Into a tree whose branches sang their own tune,
Whose mouths were mute,
Which drained the rain in rivulets down its dark trunk.
That was a watercolor drying on the table,
That was a street that was washing away,
Whose buckled sidewalks tumbled downhill,
Whose houses opened their mouths occasionally.
Here my anger sparks, it strikes collections of plates,
It scurries through the air, it lands on the ears of guinea pigs,
It ravages the refrigerator, looking for reasons to feel passionate,
It raises the shade and gazes at the dawn,
Where the sun is creeping along a red horizon
And the eyes of an empty truck shine onto a dawn, solid
With the promise of coffee and the noise of waking children
And kestrels swooping onto the windowsill.