As Complete an Investigation of Rage as You Know How to Make

A calm and softly rolling landscape –
as near as can be felt or seen –
cool breeze above its sweeps of green –
a pale blue sky – an apple tree –
no omen of catastrophe – until abruptly:
it erupts – the apple-blossoms quiver,
fall, and now it’s not what it was like
at all: a blast of vitriol begets a galling

anger from some unsuspected
geologic gut: except it’s not geology,
but your biology, whose trapped
and raging constitution’s come to war
with what it seems to see with all
of its somatic certainty as some intolerable
violation of a sacred law. Who knew
it felt so powerfully? – who knew

that some stray word or act could crack
your sweet serenity? – who is the enemy? –
and what’s it done? You wonder
if it’s not unspeakably in service
of some figure of satanic fun – who
privately colludes with you – unconsciously
invoking thunder so you’ll feel surreal:
maybe that’s the deal; but no, there’s more:

something deeply lodged in you before
and after everything that severs you
from all propriety: that marries thinking
to an instinct for a fight: until (no warning):
seismic echoes slowly cease –
the landscape rearranges into peace:
the petals on the apple-tree are
lightly fluttering – and all seems right.

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