Settled Dust

Dust settles ceaselessly around
this place we live – the air alive,
though clear, bears particles we
rarely see until its signature is
sprawled indecently on floors
and furniture-surrounded walls.

The surface is effaced by random
scrapes and smears my passage
has recorded over time; I write
my name irreverently in lavish
script with flourishes that say I
couldn’t give a damn.

Whoever chases dust obsessed
appears to miss the ancient
claim; from dust we came,
and thence always,
are destined to return.
© 27 June 2008, I. D. Carswell