Wednesday, February 09, 2005


"Remember, man, thou art dust."

The place is a mess.

Shifting the encircling chairs
From the dining table
To the corners of the room,
And attacking the hard wood
With a dust mop.
The particles fly....

Wielding the gathered feathers,
And scourging the oak, the cherry,
The hackberry.
The particles disperse
Through a shaft of light.

Seizing the upright by the throat
And chasing down the motes.
The particles pass into
The vacuum's backward belly.

We are gentiles, after all –
Coarse, fretful, forgetting:
Sweeping, mopping, and scrubbing
For the better part of the day
Leaving the house neat and

Dust curls beneath the bed
And chokes the ducts, the vents;
Mites crawl between the joints,
Behind the moulding;
Skin, nails, hair shed
And pass away.
The place is never clean.

Snapping from the laden rug
The dirt of many feet.
The particles fly
And settle on the ground.

Pouring oil atop the server,
Dripping down its face and legs,
Salving the finish.

Perhaps, we are jews after all—
Fine, fretting, forgetful –
Remembering mostly the dust –
Dispersing in the cindered air –
And that to which the dust


Blogger Hannah said...

E = mc2 is yet another form of genius at work. Thank you for sharing your (slightly mad) version.

2/09/2005 03:20:00 PM  
Blogger Gone Away said...

Beautifully written.

2/09/2005 07:47:00 PM  
Blogger Ned said...

My keyboad seized in envy. Damn... that's good.

2/09/2005 11:35:00 PM  

Post a Comment

<< Home