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.