Iron growing in the dark, <br />it dreams all night long <br />and will not work. A flower <br />that hates God, a child <br />tearing at itself, this one <br />closes on nothing. <br /> <br />Friday, late, <br />Detroit Transmission. If I live <br />forever, the first clouded light <br />of dawn will flood me <br />in the cold streams <br />north of Pontiac. <br /> <br />It opens and is no longer. <br />Bud of anger, kinked <br />tendril of my life, here <br />in the forged morning <br />fill with anything -- water, <br />light, blood -- but fill.<br /><br />Philip Levine<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/fist/
