Dust and Morning

I woke to dust in the air—

particles suspended in light,

settling everywhere,

the neighbor's renovation's blight.

It was on the pillow,

in my mouth, in my hair,

coating the window,

invading my air.

By noon everything was thick.

The dresser, the frame, the wall.

The boundary had gone sick,

dissolved, no boundary at all.

I vacuumed. It returned.

I wiped. It came back.

Every lesson that I'd learned

about control was off track.

There's sawdust in my lungs,

or maybe that's just fear—

the feeling that I'm young

and the dust won't disappear.