The black glove of anger
Fit so snugly on his impotent fingers
Flexing and clenching
He curled them into a fist
Reared back from the shoulder to the heart
And pitched a clutch of knuckled rage

Forward through the unjust glass—

A window opening on a blast of color
Radiant ecstasy
Caught in splendor
On an unmarked canvas of the mind
Ready and waiting
To receive the light.


(Previously published in The Oracular Tree, June 2000)