There should be rage between the wan and turgid moon. There should be rage between the ice sheets groaning over the spillway. There should be rage in the clang and clatter of the Burlington Northern sloughing by. Yet there is nothing but a moon, a melt and a train, all and each in their courses, unraged and dutifully bound. There should be rage beneath the welcome mat, rage in the yellow windows, rage on the roof and the stars that hang like fruit in the apple trees. And the maple tree, the maple tree whose damnable rage provokes any wind contesting, just stands there, black upon black, twisted on its root and futile.