—the granulated accumulation of all things unused,
a refusal to be forgotten.
So useless to clean it, if we take a long view.
You may dedicate a whole weekend to scouring, but it buys
only a day or two.
Your room—bookshelves, blinds, every ninety-degree angle—
is a fan of dust.
The only way to get rid of it is to get rid of everything.
This poem was first published in Thin Air Magazine.