24 july 2006

there is dust and hair
in every corner of my apartment,
where everything that sheds
away
is swept aside by swiftly passing
bare feet;
it collects,
but i never vacuum.
dust stirs in the lungs of the poet,
moved, whose purpose it is
to collect
momentary feelings,
attention drawn to ordinary details
overlooked by ordinary eyes.
if only i could weave
a strong enough
rope from all of this hair--
but what need
has one for rope
in such a small apartment,
where the imperfections,
of years, on every wall
are at arm's reach?
i might, myself, add
to that collection
of imperfections,
so that some future tenant
may ponder,
what once happened there,
and rebuild a story
of me, even if fiction,
would still
be truer than i am.