I feel that old wedge of wood
between my plexus and my temple
meaning the pressure of time
to get things done, I’ve learned
to feel it without words, it is
merely sensation, like the rose
petal of circling bullet holes
that I’ve deemed my anger there
in a stream of turrets just above
my belt line, mossy scent of water
heady far back behind the eyes coats
the back and top of the inside of my
skull is the melancholy of remembering you
© Chagall 2014
Alphabet City 