Motes



A certain sense of flailing gliding
emanates from dust motes
as they fall from nowhere endlessly
       the snow of somebody small enough
       to think that they are big

The sighing of people sends them
swirling across a room,
swinging down,
meeting the undercurrent of a stale room of air,
floating back up untouched,

though completely affected,
and gravitating toward the eddies
of the world,
   stepping of feet, swishing of tails,
   pressing of piano keys, and the
hammers within.

Originally published in Parnassus 2010.