i don't worry about
the dust anymore.
i'm
not wiping down
the tables,
or shaking
the lamp shades
clean.
i'm not taking a broom
or cloth
to what lies
around in fine silt.
silky sand.
it's in
the air we breathe,
the outside coming in.
i like to run my finger
through
it when it mounds
on the shelf,
a small dune
of dust, unstoppable
a distant relative
of rust.
i write a name within
it with a finger.
one name
is enough.
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