Blurt
Fury-laden words spill out,
comingled in their metaphors
(serpents hissing balls of fire,
tongues of rage
bursting in rivers),
all these land, in
a tangled &
explosive mess, no
logic or coherence, all
in fragments, & shards,
& shards of fragments
& yet,
arranged by the page,
thoughts slow down in lines
which order, which pace
this slowly
decelerating
fury,
& all, in time,
falls into its place,
& the page encloses,
envelope-like,
a missive of prayer,
& somewhere,
in half-lines,
the peace
of Amen
The Consolations of Writing 