And I would bash my head

Through the air conditioning units

Lining the right side of the sidewalk,

At first-floor height.

And my head would not shatter:

The metal would.

A dented, mangled Fredereich,

The pavement littered with beige shards —

And the pain, the pain would match,

For once, that on the inside,

A blistering homeostasis of black rage

And I might crack free

And I would not pick up the pieces:

Those aggressive triangles

Why manifest? Why mutilate,

When it all could so absolutely

Be rendered