Fist

 Iron growing in the dark, 
it dreams all night long 
and will not work.
 A flower 
that hates God, a child 
tearing at itself, this one 
closes on nothing.
 

Friday, late, 
Detroit Transmission.
 If I live 
forever, the first clouded light 
of dawn will flood me 
in the cold streams 
north of Pontiac.
 

It opens and is no longer.
 
Bud of anger, kinked 
tendril of my life, here 
in the forged morning 
fill with anything -- water, 
light, blood -- but fill.

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