Bob Beagrie
Dusting
In absence I travel on droughts
Dance blind in shafts that measure the seasons
The tilt of Earth-spin, settle on shelves,
tables,
On sills in snowdrifts and slow dunes.
I collect myself in the threat of avalanche
Skin to skin that once was you.
Over forensic grave paths and pumiced
Fault-lines I chart exfoliated lives
Shed like plumes from camel lights
In wintering gardens.
When you return in spring you’ll slip me on
Breathe me in, bring the gift of sandstorms
From far away places.
Page(s) 138
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