Where does our anger go when it dissipates
between our open mouths? I don’t taste it
on your tongue, I don’t feel it escape our lips
like lungfuls of used air. I don’t hear it shut the door
when it leaves, it just leaves. Maybe it goes out
to hunt down the happiness that we lost
while taking our evening burn-run. I’d guessed
it was taken up by the breeze bursting through
my open window, but maybe it wasn’t. Maybe it
just rolled under the passenger seat.
How can we be so fleeting and so steady at the same time?