Dylan Thomas

Fulfillment is uncomfortable, fulfillment is uncontrollable. What is it that Dylan Thomas told of a “weather’s wind…” “that through the green fuse drives the flower” drove his green age—

but maybe it’s a kind of holding on to a stanching force and it rots the expression in your mouth.

Maybe it doesn’t or can’t open without insisting restraint. The way a lot of people like it. No wonder. —The polite passionate poem inside the constricted throat. What a fountain throat he might’ve had instead of a packaged mouth for a fuddled audience. The half-panting kind. The dying to stay there, some of them mystified consumer types. Such a person who might’ve been a wizard eight hundred years ago was taken from us. Not the last on the punitive list. Is there a punishment for exuberance gene? Is it a lifelong striving to overcome a fatal indifference or a lifelong indifference to overcome a fatal passion? No can find. You can die constricted at both ends. It doesn’t matter if you’re into it. And how do you completely trace it