Let’s praise loss, its particular weights, its music.
Sometimes the broom is brittle; sometimes damp,
useless.
Evening: splinters of fret strike the pavement wet.
Let’s praise those who resist
the parts of love that bring
only peace.
Sometimes the broom is brittle and can’t bend; a fear
of breaking, a stiffness.
In this rough country, in the rough
morning light
night fills the broom.