Accumulation

Three AM and I'm awake,

staring at the ceiling, the stake

of sleeplessness. The streetlight

catches the dust on the blade, the sight

of a dark line against pale—

a timeline of neglect, a tale

written in particles, a thing

I've been ignoring. It's a ring

of evidence, of how long

I haven't cared, how wrong

I've been to let this accumulate,

this dust, this slow fate.

How long has it been there?

How long have I been unaware,

looking at this ceiling in the dark

without seeing the mark?

I could get up. Get a cloth.

Climb on a chair. But both

of us know I won't. I'll lie here,

watching the dust appear

in the light, watching the fan

blade shift, watching what I can't

control—the slow collection of time,

made visible, made visible, sublime.

I have so many things like this—

things I'm not taking care of, amiss,

things collecting dust in the dark,

visible only when light hits the mark.

The fan blade turns. The dust line glows.

I'm still awake. And now I know.