Dust shrouds the bright glint
of brutal remorse. It blunts the sleek,
stealthy, and powerfully muscular,
half-submerged contour of earthly struggle,
that progressing, cleaves the cloud-reflected
glassy illusion of tranquility and success,
questing unceasingly, at the deep water's edge.
Dust is the wholly uneven emperor
of even the largest incoming wave,
riding weightless atop the roiling foam.
Dust is never conquered, only shifted,
it coats the bars of every dank prison
and the moist nostrils of every free soul.
Dust is our destiny and our inescapable,
weightless, transcendent and mobile density.
Love the loess, move and be moved by it.
Pray, as you shake the mote laden rag,
beat the woolen rug, empty the canister
shake the coat and hat, on your own personal
inevitable, cleaning-day/moving-day/play-date,
lifelong, intimate and inscrutable love affair
with this spiraling glimmering universe
of unfathomably balanced light and darkness,
curated by shimmering layers of blessed spiraling dust ...
Lucy Meskill
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