Dust

It appears to be taking

over the house I live in.

Some of it happens to be

skin cells I daily do shed.

Otherwise it’s ev’ry place

I go, and is predicted

(by scripture) to be lying

in wait for me, and for you.

Dust to dust, ashes to ash ―  

we all know our prognosis. 

Wherever we go, there we 

must be, but rusting at bay.

And yet, when I go to make

a poem, time and place slip 

away, leaving nowhere for

me to be found, or found out.

There, in my very absence,  

poems are found, dusting things.