A bare moment’s cleanliness warns
of imminent death; no question that
virtue comes at the obtuse end of a
duster wielded deftly – there are no
accolades to ring in this room swept
clean of poetic debris, no carolling a
desk conscience-clear, of farewells to
hook and feather littered aspirations
But eyes feast on space wondrously
free of disparate signs someone else
lived here – discarded skin cells and
detritus of defoliate hair, of oblique
insights estranged, compliments to
order as change achieves holiness
© 5 February 2012, I. D. Carswell
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