Let Not the Sun Go Down on Your Anger  

Into the silence you light a bundle of words.

An introduction to your bewilderment about what

has misled you to this region of the flesh.

A battle unit is forming in your gullet.

A line of infantry is marching around your teeth:

all of them ready for the attack. The gall boils over,

the floor lurches under your feet,

your blood pressure knocks in your aorta like

an engineer checking the railcar’s wheels,

until you are fed up with resentment,

that blind companion who sharpens your face.

Your timid heart wraps itself in

the white flag and encourages good sense:

Come on, stop the army of irritated

cells before they are vanquished by pain.