Giles Goodland
Dust
Lean closer. Feel my last breaths
against your skin. Let me explain
how you never see dust settle.
It’s just there, in the way
a ghost has always gone
just before awareness hits,
leaving a ruffle, a conjecture.
Or in the way that opportunist
infections shadow across
my skin. Where like where
does all the time come from, pouring
out of what aperture?
The answer is something I’ll
have to whisper as I drift in & out
of alive & my thoughts are stuck
my thoughts are stuck at morning.
You know the word I’m looking for,
the one that comes after death,
or before anything else
before the wind blows under
this door & the dark’s interior
opens, & the walls fall down
to reveal a new structure & currents
of quiet will eddy through corridors
& into scarcely emptied rooms.
Page(s) 52
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