A later version of the poem,

Grace

My anger is a ball.

I clench it in my fist like a ball.

It grows a little, prints against my palm.

I roll it, it becomes a ball again.

It is very small. I press it smaller.

Some days it is so small I think I lose it.

But it has strung the center of my palm.

Absently, I flex my spider ball

I let it drop, it bounces up again

Travellating, a glob that slides on string.

When I sleep, it throbs and I relax.

In the morning it is swollen slightly.

Sometimes, I like to play the magic cup game:

Spin a ball slicked under three plain cups:

One for you, one for me, one for us:

Make a guess – where is my anger now?

I have been told

I do not know

The silver cliffs

Of your authority.

But I have heard

And have been told

That if I hurled –

My ball would rise

And maybe pass

The highest peak –

And so I hurl –

Air rushes with a sound –

And nothing:

I’m still waiting for rebound.

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I'm happy with the formal changes, but it may need some tweaking yet.