Pollinate

Pollinate

We started this thing years ago;

where darkness surrounds light and each day unfurls

like a stretched ribbon. As though in water the dust

devils dance in sun and force my breath. They are living

things that change. Dancing in air before calming,

sinking and letting me breathe again. I close the door

and edge forward, creeping barefoot towards

your fading outline (your ghost). The space where

the white tiles skim muted echoes and mirror

images of emptiness or absence. And from the

window the sunlight creates shadow;

a living thing of something I barely recognize until

with a sweep of one arm I send solar powered stars

into frenzied riots again and again. I am now water,

I am earth and I am everything that has gone before me.

The steam fogs the mirror. And the dampened light picks out

your fingerprints slowly developing on the chrome bin

like a negative, covered with dust or minute has-beens.