The Animal Is Angry

In the middle of the storm is the moving of eyes now. Morning is rush. Work is a wheel.

Hunger does not want food.

Blindness does not want eyes.

And what you want kept gets broken. And what you want broken gets broken. And nothing gets built.

And these hands that seem mine, that are torn from me, one to seek, one seeked by the storm, will be seen as the hands that disturbed the winds.

And no one will know of the animals that thrashed about behind the mountains and under the earth, that raised this madness from beneath and from behind.