the
future impressionist
a man shouts,
a woman shakes,
a child learns the sky
is not the same for everyone;
rage turns his world to glass —
vases and plates against walls
he must outgrow
the mirror becomes
someone he’d rather be,
his voice testing the words
of calmer men,
his hands learning movements
that won’t leave marks
no one sees him
creep to bed, tuck himself
between jagged noise and morning,
dream the soft forgery of faces,
the gentle theft of tongues
Copyright © 2002 Tripp Howell
