BY PETER COOLEY
Copyright is held by the author.
Will I really be dust like these clotted puffs
my cloth wipes from the top of the bookcase,
floats downwards to the shelves, Akhmatova,
Apollinaire, Bishop, Cavafy, Donne?
Only a little on their tops, less on their sides.
Only a very little dust across their names.
I’m on the next shelf now. Gluck, Hopkins, Kinnell.
Louise the living, the other two dust, dust.
Only a very little across their names.
Outside, my Monday rushes forward,
a world hurtling to self-destruct.
I have to take my place sooner or later.
But in here light quickens around the dust.
I have so many shelves to finish before I go,
fiction, non-fiction, biography, art, religion.
The dust continues, Lowell, Merwin, Moore.
Only a little on their tops, less on their sides.
Only a very little across their names.
Dust on my cloth, dust you have turned to,
after the fires, dust I can never touch
inside the stone. Your name there, Jacki, waiting for mine.
Caught my heart, Peter. Makes me think of Ash Wednesday. And, my earthly body’s destiny.