I have been enabled to speak of
hate.
The ball rolling away, the child
chasing.
Reminds me of an unsealed fever.
I have hated suppression, relaxed
in
lies, like twilight, distinguished by
threats, severed by exhaustion, at
inhouse chimney—sweeping home
clear, if clean.
I have been absolved of happiness,
sorting through rubbish, finding
essence pierced with a dagger;
and flipping coins, to solve qualms,
pinpricks, fluid to paper, with
need
to specify disgust; in soul, to
feel
depth, anxiety inside of
speculation,
the philosophy building divisions,
a reed broken, hate breathing, a
tale has been told with honor.
And her orange becomes dread, in
a field packed with numb children.
How have I confused hatred?
How to unfret self?
A new pair of trousers.
They only fit hatred.
