Dust

I am waiting for the bats to rest

I am waiting for the sky to break

I am waiting to cool my blood

there've been no storms

nor even any mackerel to lead them

the world is dust

my skin is a dust skin and my hands

are friction conjurers drawing

a cloak of it over me.

I keep two fingers there

and one hand open to the sky

I am trying to keep track

I am trying to notice

the dust near liquid in my easy veins

my heart that pumps a splitting fist of it through.

Fine so fine now I breath it in.

Dust the velvet on my orphan lungs

dust held, dust cared for and

dust, the fire I spit to the sky

a carnival of dust rising and drawing attention

dust seeding the clouds

particles of dust raising their own armies against me

and falling, stripping the cloak from my back,

wearing my skin muddy to the ground

leaving me stretch-eyed and smiling

and clean

so clean.