SWEEPING EQUATION
When bad news comes I sweep.
My left hand becomes a pivot
while the right is force
moving across the axis of my body.
It’s a geometric dance.
Grief within form is art.
Other habitual motions
feel like that too. Within
the matrix of porch floor boards
and slatted siding a body sidesteps.
Tiny dust-cumulus rise on each side
of the rhythmic broom.
The worse the news
the more I sweep.
—from Rattle #20, Winter 2003
__________
Dory L. Hudspeth: “Poetry is what lights my fire. Poetry happens to me, mostly in the morning. This thing, spontaneous poetry, is probably better than spontaneous human combustion. It is more socially acceptable, a little less painful, and you can do it over and over again.” (web)
