My anger and resentment doesn’t
boil because of the crushing dark.
It’s expected and does its
job like a doomed soldier
crossing enemy lines.
No, it’s the dancing happy,
jumpy sparkly optimism that
drags me into the stratosphere
only to tell me as the strings are
cut and “there is no reserve chute sucker.”
I think without the rocket ride of
the highs it would be easier to
dig down deep into the soft earth
smells of the darkness and fetal myself
into the comforting dark refrigerator hum.