Scream

Scream with all the furied determination
of someone else's horses
who run rampaging,
racetracks through the bloodstream

and a stable in the heart.
Scream
when you feel their blood
beading at the cut
on the side of your hand.

Scream like a songbird
on March twenty-third,
just as the day reaches out
and brushes, with snow-blued finger tips,
the point
where you scream

to welcome the
impending explosions of the mind.