Dust Dancers

The sun pushed through

the grime on the windowpane,

a pale rectangle on the floor.

And in it, they moved.

Tiny, particulate worlds,

drifting, without current,

without aim.

Hours passed.

I watched them.

A speck would catch the light,

glint, then dim,

lost again in the slow tumble.

My own limbs felt heavy,

part of the furniture.

No sudden urge to stand,

to stretch, to open a door.

Just the silent,

meaningless ballet

of things that were once

something else,

and the quiet,

meaningless ballet

of my own breathing.

What was the point

of either?