Dustlight
the soft, resigned falling of petals from a rose and the hard, fast slap of water shooting from the hose the smell of heat and leather hangs inside the living room where a beam of sun holds dust like a thread within a loom grief and joy have swelled and cooled right here inside this air and the only evidence are the specks suspended there my smaller self has washed far down a hurrying silver stream but a piece of me floats idly in the sepia summer beam