" The grapes he foraged set my teeth on edge.
I want to hack through their wild vines, dissect
this anger. It's a tangle: steep hill strung
with old foxgrapes among the hardwood, tough
enough to swing from (proto-bungee rush
that's like a fit of rage, adrenalin
alive inside me), or to strangle in.
Vines choke. "

― , Fire Baton (Arkansas Poetry)