Coarse

The plastic bin is full of gray,

a winter’s worth of lint and hair.

I dumped the boot and out it came—

the fine, sharp grit from the cemetery road.

It’s been months, but in this kitchen light,

the sand looks like it’s still moving.

It doesn’t belong in a house

without a shoreline.

It swirls in the dander and the thread,

refusing to be sucked away,

a bit of the ground we left him in

staying where the broom can't reach.