existential anger

When you peel away the layers, you will find
at certain times, the anger
throbbing like an unhealed, hidden wound.
Alone, in an otherwise beautiful night, you
wonder why the only genuine affection
comes from dogs.  Why
no one sits outdoors to look at the full moon.
And the mind has never any breathing space
while the body is in outgrown places.
Somewhere in your marrows, you ask for sea
or cans after cans of beer with conversation
expected to end into something else.
Maybe a consuming night of uncontrollable
passion, the way you still remember.
Or falling, at last, into a deep well 
of sleep.  Dreamless.  As when you were
so much younger.  When did you realise
the world is not going to get any better?
At fifteen, a nun brushed away the answer
to your question.  At ten, you kept yourself
awake on guard.  And learned restraint.  
Also how to keep surfaces from imploding.
When you peel away the layers, you will find
at certain times, the familiar anger
throbbing, an unhealed hidden wound.
And alone, in an otherwise beautiful night, 
you wonder of genuine affection.  Why
no one is outdoors to look at the full moon.