Like a pile of dust
with the broom.
All the fine elements swept to meet each other starting at one end of the room, of the cold, cement floor, and
brushing to the other.
Painting clean each square foot
from each miniscule particle
that lies waiting to be a sneeze
to some lost one happenchance to pass.
Basting that slate clean-
clean clean, a pile of dust...
...a rib, a pile of dust...
sweeping, nearing the end of all sweeps, the cracks
and corners at the far far end, gently
folding each sweep into the dust pile...
And brushing all piles together
as one, as one, all dust
to be swept
into that sweeping pan, dust dust
brushing, turning round to the pile....
print remains, small particles floating in the rays of windowsun.
Now only the remains of a pile, dust dust
A boot, a boot
a stomping meandering boot
print is all that remains.
A ghost, a spirit, of the dust that we are.