Dust

The dust keeps piling up.

I wipe the dust around the bowl before lifting it to wipe the surface of a desk which lies completely flush against the surface of the object, and yet is prone to exposure. I wipe it still. I rub the sediment of tap water from the inner rim of the bowl, before cleaning the bowl with different water, before filling it with yet more water. I comb the back of my head before I straighten to look on my face. I cross my legs to feel balance.

The indulgence is in setting the corners of this pile of books into a plumb line, before pushing my entire body into it to create a domino ridge, a profiler, a memory foam. And the pages mean nothing to me open and I don’t plan on telling anyone I ever read and the books are meant for you and somehow I know the dust is in the gutters of these books, too.

Under the pedestal, I hide with my child. We pretend we’re looking for treasures.

accidentally took this picture of my back yard.