If It’s the Last Thing

If It’s the Last Thing

Practice makes purpose,
makes for purple-blue
hydrangean bruises from
what you keep pressing
into, against. An hour is
a tent we rent from ourselves.
A lab in the basement, a forge,
a foundry. Where are the stairs,
I can find them with my feet.
The ballroom is marked up
with dotted lines, arrows,
soles of shoes to show me
where to go. As if in looking
down, we are looking up
through the floor of another
ballroom, and seeing only
the feet of the dancers there.
Press your feet against theirs,
for they are learning, too.
Step, step, rock step. I am
going to learn me some joy
if it’s the last thing I ever do.