Dust

by Amy Gerstler

Lightest of burdens,
it sifts over window
sills, entering open mouths
and noses of silly buildings.
It tumbles from the folds
of a never-worn dress
discovered in some attic.
Fuzz of nothingness
in time it becomes fur
to protect objects’ tender
hides. Victor in all wars.
Gray obliterator.
The granite head
of a grimacing king
dwindles to this,
as flesh and stone meet
at dust’s bone-dry crossroads.
Ageless buffer
composed of worlds
of enticing tininess,
orbiting in shafts
of sudden, misguided light,
looping the loop
with carnival exuberance.
Its mute grist is the exhaustion
of form. Dignified, it remains
the bane of housekeepers,
nemesis of the asthmatic
and the fastidious. It does not
respond to cross-examination.
Who is resigned enough
to give herself up to this?
Submit to the conqueror’s
mortar and pestle, wear its cloak
of motes, be ground down to earth’s
finest flour, which sprinkles
itself liberally over the ends
of all roads. Scattered by sneezes,
lens-clouder, most lusterless
of snows, you are substance’s goal,
the be-all and end-all of
parchment, skin, dandruff, pearls,
crisp insect shells.
You’re matter’s last stop,
neglect’s obscure handwriting,
desiccated beverage of ghosts.
You’re action’s fallout,
blurrer of ancient library titles.
As your lightless particles implode
they constantly mock their younger
siblings, the dim frivolous stars.