what do the angry people see
through the squint of their third eye
as they rage for a cup of something
hot, or cold, or devoid of ice?

what do they dream in the Godless dark
where the bats are fluttering
but they can not make them out
through the stars?

what do they know, truly know,
when they scream out, out to the red pine
slumbering in the almost-winter nights
amongst an earth blanketed in the sharp tender
needles that were once them?

What do they love, these angry people,
when they slaughter all the little sacreds
that burble like a soothing brook
upon their soul’s torn edges?