Sunday, March 29, 2015


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.

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