Dust

Feel the walls
of the body
in which you currently
have come to live,

the hands of your soul
covered with the dust
of each day
of decay
that flakes off,
small and dirty bits of earth,
rejoicing
from the inside
out.

Ashes to ashes
you let the detritus
of humanity cling to the frame
of your thoughts--
the clanking pots
on the peddler's cart,
calling out
as the idea of you
walks through another year
of longing. Peace
down the next street
or, maybe,
the next.

Perhaps this time
you will stop,
open your tired eyes,
and notice the bruises
on the backs of your hands,
knuckles swollen from the fight,

and simply
wash away the blood
and the arid land
of this temporary
dwelling,

disappearing
into the dusky outline
of nothing,

finally
vanishing into
the particles
caught
by the expanding
sounds of wind.