Rain, and more rain! And now
this whore sunshine!
Grass, how dare you inflict yourself
on my desires, you and your weed-
sprung clan, shattering the peonies,
raping the barren hops.
Filthy mess of life!
You thrive for spite,
like the princeling who squalls in the muddy
shadows, like the miller’s queen
shedding ice in my heart’s parlor.
Fury! Fury!
I could tear myself in two,
sever like stove wood under the axe,
then split again a thousand times,
pound myself to ash
till all the busy ants in christendom
couldn’t sort my rage from dust.
"Rumpelstiltskin's Garden," first published in Interpoezia, no. 2