Poem: Unsettled

 

Unsettled

 

the dust had no color,

just the lost dreams of stones.

in every corner of the room,

where fate thronged thick,

the proof of it lounged,

looking back in utter absence,

 

style-less,

 

a stupid kind of trouble,

one unaware of its desuetude;

a negative optimal, inert,

and yet somehow still it crept.

 

in fact, everyone was there,

an ogle of eyebrows,

an audience of furrowed fuzz

from heroic to lewd,

so many ancestral verdicts--

 

a microscopic jackstraw puzzle

of interlocked taboos.

 

one breath would make them all dance.

violent tarantellas.  furious sashays.

afterwards to settle down,

dismembered, shrunken--

the opposite of dinosaurs.

 the dust, though, was much older.

it carried a primal fetus in its eddies. 

it often bragged, in fact, about how it had snipped

a flagellum off the very first protozoan.

indeed

 

when lava cooled,

when the last flames sunk,

when fecund helices swam pregnable waters,

the dust was there. 

it started to nibble right away,

venturesome and avaricious,

multiplying its heads.

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