Settling

The guest room, never quite

shut up. Just

gathering light.

A thin sunbeam, so mean,

cuts through the air, unseen.

My finger dragged, a slow,

pale track, a hollow row,

across the album's dark blue hide.

A map where nothing can reside.

Years, piled soft and grey,

a fine grit on every day.

Unread pages,

unopened boxes,

a whole life held still, with paradoxes.

The tiny specks still swim,

caught in the hard glare, grim.

They look alive, these dead bits, small.

Little planets, waiting for a fall.

Circling

what's left, a silent call.