Iron growing in the dark, br it dreams all night long br and will not work. A flower br that hates God, a child br tearing at itself, this one br closes on nothing. br br Friday, late, br Detroit Transmission. If I live br forever, the first clouded light br of dawn will flood me br in the cold streams br north of Pontiac. br br It opens and is no longer. br Bud of anger, kinked br tendril of my life, here br in the forged morning br fill with anything -- water, br light, blood -- but fill.