Dustfall

Sunlight, a fat, yellow blade

cutting through the windowpane.

An hour just bled,

slow and useless, like old rain.

Nothing moved. Not a thing.

Just dust motes, like tiny, broken wings,

suspended in that tired air.

Too many thoughts, nowhere.

My own breath, a shallow thing.

This quiet hum, it seems to sing

a judgment, sharp and low.

How far does nothing go?