The Orange Dust

Leaning out, past the warped screen,

the fire escape railing, cold under my palm.

Then a fleck, orange-brown, soft, almost clean,

flakes off, a small, quiet alarm.

It's fine powder on my skin, a stain,

an ugly fingerprint, the slow, sure cost

of leaving metal out in sun and rain.

Another small part of the world, just lost

to what it is, becoming something else.

Not breaking clean, but flaking, turning weak.

And I wipe it off, that gritty, fine grit delves

into the lines of my hand. There's nothing left to speak.