Sure, A Love Push Past Late Clouds

You do a little broken dance
in the vicinity.

Really that's all there is to it.

The dustpan's tiny ramp,
The hand that cups the struck match.

Highs in the lows and lows
in the uppers.

We leave our dimpled beds
and lock our belongings behind a door,
and who knows what time is doing time for,
but look at the care with which
the hand of the hidden body sometimes pats us down.




Poem by Misty Harper. All rights reserved. Reprinted with the permission of the author.