Rage Seated

The air you breathe is derelict:

Your mind worn thin,

Desire's extravagance drawn spare,

You spin in an orbit of your own devising,

Within walls marred yellow, crying

To bird and human: I am he that

Thunders, I am the sky, I am

Desperation, I am Wednesday morning.

The glacier is moving south:

Taking the sun's glint westward,

You will bless yourself grandly at your own

Peril, and all in a sweat like rainfall

Will surely set out for the woods, grow seedy.

A wonderful redemption is moving south.