To be Joy

Is it joy? That

secures a damp cloth-

streaked with oil-

between gritty mechanisms of fingers

 

Is it joy? That

traces in sand circles

my laid-out form,

clots your aches that they may

flood to something cleaner

 

Is it joy? That

grabs fistfuls of night in one hand,

their ankles in the other,

pulls down hard that the two shaking fists

may sit to coffee

 

Is it joy? That

weeps sweat upon the red-faced chorus,

faints out of belief

in the unfettered cadenza

of words and bells in the hall

 

Surely, it is joy

that raises the tide,

so their footprints may be cleansed,

to let the old shore be transformed.