New Anger

A child's anger, it hasn't atrophied,
it hasn't been
put to good use.

Neither nor, and it hasn't been the spur
for adult anger.

Nothing washes over,
and it takes me from
sour noted child sadness of
an English country garden,
lilac bee swat,
spanner echo in the barn,
tattered porno,
third hand absence.

Someone was put to work,
got startled within the hedgerows,
never came back.

I saw something in the city fox,
sharing the listlessness of where we came from,
listless as we are now.