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)
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem