Jan 8, 2024
My Dust (a poem)
My Dust
It’s my dust on the nightstand, the alarm clock, the desk and dresser, on the loose change in the ceramic leaf you bought for me to keep it in;
my dust, the crumbs of my lack of caring anymore
that flutters through the sunlight in the morning and stirs when I pick up a book or a pen,
that lays on my eyelids when I sleep and dream of flying with soft gray wings unfolding from my back collecting only clear air under their feathers
taking me higher with each thrust
as if uncaring were some form of art or grace.
Mourning
bravissimo
