Among other things, I’m beginning to see dust in a whole new way. As though the molecular form has suddenly changed and what was once based on some form of geological pillar, is now made of what Milton referred to as “angel fluff” — heavenly bodies neither male nor female who frequently make each other gigggle mid-air, mid-sentence, kissing between the currents. And why should I complain? Instead of solitude interrupted sporadically by the blackberry or a sip of tea, my bedtime now salted with wonder-inducing illusions of dust. No, the knots are not appearing as often as they used to, wiggling beside my lamp, but enter, dust.
Maybe I should be worried. Worried I’m losing my mind. Or perhaps I should listen to the dust giggle here and there, and not worry if I may, or may not, be seeing things.
So, I haven’t slept in a while. But maybe this is exactly the time to see such things come into themselves, circling the room in free-verse.
But what do I say or do with something so elusive? Bring me visions and I’ll lay down, too anxious to sleep. Bring me a reason to write again, and I will compose letters to you but won’t send them, just tuck them behind my ear, on tiny scrolls or scraps of paper that could be hidden anywhere…even in my shoes or pocket.
Webs of words, catch-nothings peeling their ribs off one by one.
She’s trying to see the cycles, how,
though the dark belly of some field deer can be gutted,
though the ligaments tear when kneeling
and friends pass the hallways, silent,
the once childish light remains, even among
violence and red–indeed, that’s the moment
of hush-orange, solitude’s sting.