of this, we speak no more

anger cast into bronze, stoppered by cork

to drift wordless on brine

tossed in minstrels juggle with storm, broiling its molten back

what utterances we might have said

under lashing touch of fury, kept back

for words have demons

we, demented by ire

may step far from safety, hurling balls of fire

stay your hand, hold this need

it is fragmentary

loosed by temper, artless in regret

always too late

better never touch, this aggrieved place

watch instead the sea, free of bottles

rise and evaporate, as dying our fury

quells itself to naught

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