Analysis of Shapeless Uneasiness

when I see you, I wonder if you have died.
I notice discomfort, a pretty, pained smile.
I count on undercurrents; I see anguish in
tiles, ceilings, rivers carrying geese, but
not in your gaze, nor in your face, with
much sorrow buried under anger, without
viciousness; societal anger, pressed inside,
against the cervix, next to bone, aside a
gift for looking adorable. maybe a bite to
eat, vomit out, or mush a cigarette into;
maybe a sensuous affair, where you can’t
release, and it becomes painful obsession;
maybe oxygen is poison, so peccable, made
into underbrush and gnats and shapeless.