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The Wild Anger Is Tired Of Soap She is late, dropping her body. He can hear her flesh. She knows that for a streetlight. You’re late, he says. You’ve dropped your body, he says. Somewhere, there is a wild anger, tired of soap. The last few months have had a twinge of the door. Suddenly, he walks back to his forehead, his stomach. She unfastens her door until he cranes his breath. She steps around the kitchen and into his ears. Her eyes are a brilliant idea. When there is no more beer, he pulls her head. c David Kennedy 2000 %%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%