Poem: Dust

 

Dust

 

an outcast had no choice

save to wander like a shroud,

pitching her powder

that rid skin of vitality,

while tarnishing the rest

to emaciate luster.

 

it was a granular affair,

a sandglass compulsion,

the establishment of a feast 

to fete vultures and worms.

 

she built mansions

in the Sahara and the Marianas Trench,

founded outposts that lurked in lungs

to ride the hearts of lovers, of criminals;

of relatives and ant-like workers;

of despots and clowns and maskers,

even tickling the nostrils

of saints.

 

maligned as infernal, she laughed

while life strived and bred,

and she assessed every infant creature

for flavor—

 

which future, which hope,

would dissolve sweeter

in the latté dunes of time.

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