I am barreling down the highway and it rains for a second then not for a few moments then another second of rain then just a brief time of the road spitting up on me. I’m on the edge of a storm cloud, the road’s unraveling weaving me in and out of nature’s grumpiness.
This morning after that journey, I reread this poem by Allyson Paty from the always working it Sixth Finch. This song for the new dance bursts, but key is the white space in between, those moments to see the wicked shaking that is going on, the wind or the music (depends on your perspective), pushing life around, its hits popping in its prepositional phrases, its dance steps in strange commands.
Here’s how it gets a-kicking:
do the knees of the brother in a stranger’s home video
when he chases the dog pulls the dog’s ear
do the left wrist of an anchor the right arm of the riot cop
and the scalp of the crowd