Grace Beyond Margins Poem by A.Z. McCoy

How the menial passings go
You wouldn't expect a touching
Of human marrow,
Yet it's all over
Smeared and with dance
The linings of soul
The everyday
Commonplace chance

At a convenience
A store, the last place
You'd expect
A smocked, underpaid woman
To dole the 'for waste'
As blessing to trembled, empty
hand
This strikes you,
As you watch the gift pass,
Among all of those signs and
prices
And fluorescent lights
That make you look sick,
Of grace beyond margins

Infinite
Breathing alongside
The unseen contours exhaled
Never loud
Never forgotten