the fungibility of outrage

Our fuses have been pruned and shaped
as bonsai branches, grown
short, unnaturally numerous; prodded
with terrifying constancy.

This world produces only matchsticks,
waiting to catch and burn
until you sport another cinder;
everything is aimed at you, or me,
for no purpose but to enrage;
does it matter what you’re enraged about?
or is this rage a seething wave,
separated only by the momentary shape,
then settling, homogeneous,
slaked back by the sea?

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