After two clashing days—ultramarine
overlaid with vermilion—
it came to me late the third afternoon
that as between
anger and grief there’s no comparison.
The choice is easy. Does one have a choice?
Shadows, twilight, dusk, a waterfall,
a brimming glance, a fold of shawl,
a stillness—all these are forms of flowing.
Where did my lost one go? And mourn its going.
While anger flushed with mad efficiency
cobbles a narrative together, huffing
and puffing, swollen with self-righteousness,
sweaty with fumes; packs shards of anecdote
into a glittering mosaic
too hot to touch. Spit on an iron: just
that smell and hiss. So no:
go back into the footprint left by love,
however long ago. The angry embers
lose themselves in nightfall’s deepening blue.