Why are you angry?
It’susually like this, bone-bitten and dark, but we were hidden deep, in thecrevices / Of our houses, before the storm came to blow us apart / I prayed Iwas sorry, but these wintry tempestuous nights don’t deal in apologies, and /The world could dull to a single descrescendo, a squall-fed scream, the lip ofa knife. / Before I would notice that it is far too cold, too cold for this,for my / Kind of fire. The roofs are singing with rain, the pariahs arehowling, and all the branches that should’ve been burning / Are yawning to thegale. / The kindling’s out, there will be no inferno / Tonight. And I wouldlike to say I knew you once, knew once, how to write / Now I know no one atall, no one, and I think the penultimate winter storm will wash me away, I willsee you / No longer, I have known you / Never, not at all. The kindling’s out,there will be inferno, not / Tonight, maybe never / Never / Again.Ask me a question, I’ll write you a poem
