After Stomp                                                                                  for Ruth and Steve Shewan                                                                     shuffle hands and feet across sand and slide                                                                     slide on tops of cans, slap toes and bellies,                                                                     plunge water off streets and lift up rivers of light                                                                     streaming down to brooms: push push push                                                                     and slam then slam the bristles’ backbones                                                                     while their handles wear gowns of windmill light                                                                     and flashing light twists and turns and spots                                                                     three women pulling sounds that save the spirit                                                                     from a bag of garbage: push push                                                                    the brooms across debris, across unthought                                                                    and watch as waterfall sinks explode                                                                    and grow into giants barreling over ground                                                                    and reaching up to hubcap drummers                                                                    and stopsign clowns reaching down                                                                    from cables banging plastic tubes                                                                    in tune or tuning tubes on the head                                                                    for a blessing                                                                    as the pencil-mouth strummer pipes                                                                    no hollow sound and shimmering papers flutter                                                                    and exalt meekness in strong sounds                                                                    in the valley of iron and steel, where flesh and sweat                                                                    are often robed in light, the light of lighters flicking up                                                                    our inner stars whose heat we now can hold                                                                    or give away in hope in the blood-swept arteries of acts                                                                    that shine at fingertips of touch: touch now touch                                                                    we too these stars as they clap clap                                                                    laughter pouring from their tap                                                                    taptap and tap on the hard wood                                                                    or heart or air alive with motes                                                                    that clang when clanged in minds made whole                                                                    by splashing seas in empty cans                                                                    or buckets dripping dripping on                                                                    streets outside with spires or towers                                                                    tunnels and sewers flowing down and                                                                    down as we shuffle hands and feet                                                                    in our goings over asphalt                                                                    or concrete: push push your own broom                                                                    across detritus of thought or hate:                                                                   this world is just a small temple                                                                   in which we dance or die. Dance. Stomp.                                                                                                                            John Kryder Poems